Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic I
by Taure
Summary: Massively AU. Assume nothing. Harry Potter is born into a very different world than the one in canon. A world where the Greats of history walk among mere men. A world where power is all that matters, and young Harry Potter is a commodity desired by many.
1. Prologue

**Story Disclaimer**: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I do not own it. I write this purely for pleasure, and receive no profit from it.

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**Summary:** Massively AU. Assume nothing. Harry Potter is born into a very different wizarding world than the one in the books. A world where the Great Ones of history walk among mere men. A world where power is all that matters, and young Harry Potter is a commodity desired by many.

**Author's Notes:** Welcome to my new story! This has been bubbling in my mind for about 3 years now. And now, finally, it is being written and published to the world at large. I can't make any promises on update rates - life is busy. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to be as dedicated as possible. Rest assured that I have a plan for the story, so there's no chance of me writing myself into a corner I can't get out of. This also means that I won't really be taking suggestions. Feel free to speculate though. Finally, I would advise you to take seriously the disclaimer in the story summary. Assume nothing. Of course, I play off of the ideas about HP you already have, and utilise - as all fanfiction does - the fact that I don't need to explain in great detail some things to you. However, this story is unashamedly Alternate Universe. There's not much about the setting, characters, or plot that I haven't changed. If you have a problem with this, then I suggest you - well, I suggest you read it anyway, and make your mind up afterwards.

I recommend reading this in 3/4 format.

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**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Prologue**

The burning cottage lit the night with a soft orange glow, the roaring and crackling of the flames piercing the peaceful calm of Godric's Hollow. Sirens could be heard in the distance - someone in the village had alerted the emergency services. The police, however, would arrive too late.

Had the night been quiet the whole village might have heard the wizards arrive. Two loud cracks, like the snap of a whip, would have echoed throughout the countryside as they materialised out of thin air, their closely-cut robes rustling with the swirl of magic. As it was, the noise of the fire covered their arrival on the front lawn.

Both men were youthful and handsome in an old-world kind of way, and there was a distinct familial resemblance between them. Black hair, strong jaws and high cheekbones were the order of the day.

"Good gods," muttered one as he took in the sight of the house, his face grim. "John, there's no way..."

They both knew what was left unsaid. Anyone left in the house was surely dead. But they had their orders. John took the lead, striding towards the front door of the house - or what was left of it.

"We must hurry!" he cried, drawing his wand as he broke into a run. He waved the wand in a rushed motion at himself, before pointing it at the door. A nimbus of red light shot forward at a startling speed and smashed into the door, knocking it down like it had been given a hard kick.

Fire exploded out of the doorway as it sought new oxygen to consume, but the wizard paid it no mind and ran right into it, apparently unharmed. He did not wait to see if his companion followed.

The interior of the house was as bad as the exterior suggested. What had once been a homely sitting room was now nothing but flames and smoke. John quickly tapped his mouth with his wand and a bubble appeared there, supplying him with clean air.

Between the fire and the smoke it was impossible to see. Getting desperate, John moved to go towards the kitchen, but was interrupted by a voice from behind him.

"_Homenum Revelio!_" shouted his companion, and then after a brief pause, "Upstairs! There's someone upstairs!"

Both ran to the stairs and climbed, hoping beyond hope for a miracle. Impossibly, the cry of a baby met them as they reached the landing.

"Harry!" cried John.

"In the bedroom!" replied his friend.

They burst into the bedroom, the door long since disintegrated, and barely took in the form of a burning body on the floor before spotting the baby Harry, innocent green eyes wide, sitting on the floor with a ring of fire around him, some magic protecting him. John picked him up without thinking.

A loud crash came from downstairs and the floor shook.

"That was the stairs!"

"Thomas, take Harry and apparate out!" shouted John, "I'm finding James!"

John thrust baby Harry into Thomas' hands without waiting for a reply and ran back out of the room. Thomas let him go, but knew there was no hope. If James had survived, he would have been able to rescue Harry himself.

Shaking his head, he clutched Harry to his chest and spun on the spot, disappearing as if he had imploded into nothing. He appeared once more back on the front lawn, none the worse for wear. Harry was still crying. Thomas tried to rock him, but it was no use - not a surprise, given what he had been through.

A minute later John crashed back out of the house, just as the roof collapsed. He was carrying a body. James Potter's body was unrecognisable, his skin charred black and waxy. Not even magic could save him now.

John started towards Thomas, tears running down his face, but after two steps he froze. A chill went down Thomas' spine. John was looking at something behind him.

He spun around, and his heart sank.

There, standing in front of him, was a little girl. In one hand she was clutching a worn teddy bear, in the other she held a wand. Her hair was in pig tails and she had impossibly large eyes, staring at Thomas.

She was impossibly cute, and the worst possible thing that could have happened.

Thomas took a step back. This was not good.

"My Lady Lucena," he said with a slight bow of his head. Formality was good. It was safe. "What an unexpected pleasure."

The girl blinked, and a feral smile grew on her face. Such an expression looked simply _wrong_ on the girl.

"Boo!"

The was a tearing sound, like a curtain ripping, and Thomas felt something warm splatter him from behind. Instinctively he turned around again, and immediately wished he hadn't.

John was gone, replaced by a blast radius of blood and gore. He had, quite literally, exploded. Fear and despair ran through Thomas. His mind shut down, refusing to process the death of his son. He could only manage one thought:

_Run!_

He spun on the spot, trying to apparate away, but nothing happened. Lucena must have stopped him.

"The boy, Potter," she said, her voice both childish and regal.

Thomas took another step back.

The girl raised her wand.

And with the slightest whisper of wind, a man appeared between them. He was tall and thin, very old, wore brightly coloured robes, and had a long silvery beard.

This time it was Lucena that froze.

"Dumbledore," she said, her voice flat, her wand still half-raised. She paused for a moment, completely still, then lowered her arm.

Albus Dumbledore assessed the scene in an instant. His eyes grew sad as he saw the house, and a trace of anger appeared when he saw the bloodstain that had been John Potter.

"Persephone," he replied evenly, "your presence is, as always, most unwelcome."

Thomas prepared to run. If they were to fight, Thomas did not want to be near ground zero.

Lucena twitched her wand, and in an instant Dumbledore's own was pointing at her, quicker than the eye could follow.

She spat on the ground, and disappeared with a _pop_.

Dumbledore visibly relaxed, and his wand disappeared once more. The danger gone, everything hit Thomas at once - the death of both his son and grandson in one night. He fell to his knees. His hands were shaking. Harry was still crying.

Dumbledore put a hand on Thomas' shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"They will all be greatly missed," he said, "but we cannot mourn them now. We must think to the future."

Thomas nodded mutely, and passed Harry to Dumbledore. The baby stopped crying.

"Ah, he remembers me!" said Dumbledore, apparently pleased.

Thomas found his voice, and his legs.

"Is it true, Albus?"

Dumbledore clearly knew what he was talking about.

"It is."

"But... how?"

"I confess I do not know it all," Dumbledore replied as he let Harry grip his finger, "that is a secret that only Harry here knows. But if I am not mistaken..."

Dumbledore went to touch the lighting-bolt shaped cut on Harry's forehead, but withdrew his finger as if burnt.

"It is as I thought. The impossible has happened: somehow Harry reflected Lord Voldemort's killing curse."

Thomas was speechless, for a moment.

"All the more reason for him to be raised by his real family then! The Potters have supported you for three generations, Albus! Do you really trust us so little with our own?"

Dumbledore met Thomas' eyes until he looked down.

"I have made my decision, Thomas," he said, his voice stern, "and you of all people must see why it is necessary. Just this night Lucena tried to take him. And there will be more. There will always be more, for the rest of his life."

Thomas put his hand on Harry's forehead. He was saying goodbye.

"Very well, my Lord. We'll take him to Privet Drive, as you say."

"Don't worry, Thomas. All will turn to right in the end. And don't forget, you shall see him again. Ten years is for us like a blink of an eye."

"I suppose you're right," he said, and there was nothing more to say. They apparated away, leaving behind a scene that would mystify the police for years.


	2. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Chapter 1**

It was the height of summer, and dark grey cloud obscured the sky in every direction. Harry Potter sighed as he looked towards the heavens. It was going to rain before he finished weeding the drive.

It seemed to Harry that the drive always needed weeding. He turned back to his work - a trail of uprooted plants messily discarded over the stone - and knelt down. His Aunt Petunia wouldn't let him work in the rain, but he _needed_ his pocket money this week. He had to get Dudley his birthday present, after all, and that would put him back a few pounds.

Harry had long ago given up on trying to figure out why Dudley didn't have to do chores to get his pocket money. Aunt Petunia's rehearsed explanation never changed.

"Dudley is my son, Harry," she would say in her agitated, shrill voice. "You're a guest in our house, and you'll do your chores!"

It was always the same, Harry thought as he attacked a particularly tough weed. Dudley got everything. He got all the best toys, the best birthday parties, the best clothes, the best room. Harry had to sleep on a rickety old bed in the box room at the end of the hall.

Of course, Harry wasn't a Dursley - as he was so often reminded. But this did little to make him feel any better about the fact that Dudley got ten pounds a week for doing nothing when he only got two.

Had Harry been any other boy, he might have been jealous.

Harry, however, was not any other boy. Harry knew he was special, orphan though he was. He could do things - things other people couldn't.

The first light drop of rain landed on his face, causing him to frown. He needed to work faster.

He glanced up and down the street. No one was watching. He placed his hand on the cold stone of the drive and closed his eyes.

Harry didn't really know how he did the things he did. He just knew that if he concentrated really hard, and reached for that familiar feeling deep inside, like a word on the tip of your tongue, he could change the world around him.

He could do magic. That was something else he just knew. What he did was magic, and to him it seemed like an old friend, present his entire life, bubbling just beneath the surface. When Vernon shouted at him and sent him to his room without dinner, instead of crying Harry would reach out and be comforted by the steady warmth that only he could feel.

He opened his eyes and froze.

The driveway was overrun with weeds. Those he had been trying to dig out had grown all over the paving, breaking through the stone in several places. Even the plants he had already removed were somehow alive again.

Harry had a feeling he wouldn't be getting his pocket money that week.

Wondering what he could possibly say to Aunt Petunia, Harry brushed his ever-messy black hair out of his eyes and turned to go back inside.

Thunder boomed and a steady pitter-patter of rain began to fall. It would turn into a downpour any moment.

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end.

"Good morning, Harry," said a voice. It was a posh voice, like the boys who went to the private school down the road.

Harry turned around, wondering who would talk to him.

Standing just beyond the flower bed was a man wearing the oddest clothes Harry had ever seen. He looked like he was wearing some kind of robe, but it wasn't anything like Aunt Petunia's bathrobe. For a start it looked much more expensive: several layers of heavy material cluttered with a complex series of buckles and buttons.

The man also had a striking resemblance to the pictures of Harry's dad. They shared the same strong jaw, the same sharp nose, the same high cheekbones.

Harry's heart began to beat faster. Sure, the man was weird looking, but Harry couldn't help but hope that this man had some connection to his parents. A connection that wasn't the Dursleys.

"Hi," said Harry, ignoring years of lessons about not talking to strangers, "who're you?"

The stranger chuckled. The rain was quite heavy now, and at the back of Harry's mind he could already imagine Aunt Petunia's shrieking voice, berating him for getting so wet.

"My name, Harry, is Thomas Potter, and I am your great grandfather."

And as quickly as it came, Harry's hope was crushed. It was some kind of joke. Or maybe the odd man wanted to kidnap him.

Suddenly Harry wanted to be far away from this man.

"STRANGER!" Harry shouted as loudly as he could. He ran back towards the house. "HELP, STRANGER!"

Aunt Petunia burst out of the house, clutching a ladle, her thin face pinched and annoyed. Harry hid behind her.

The man walked up to them. Petunia saw him and paled.

"Ah, Petunia," the man said, distaste evident in his voice, "You remember who I am?"

She nodded. Harry was confused. Did this mean the man wasn't going to kidnap him?

"Shall we go inside, then?" the man - Thomas - said.

Petunia allowed herself to be herded inside. The house was typically middle-class and suburban. A modern house; Aunt Petunia kept it extremely clean and tidy - obsessively so. The hallway they walked into was bland. A few photographs and zero character.

Thomas looked around the house as if he might catch a disease from it. Harry grinned and shook his hair like a dog trying to get dry, causing Petunia to gasp.

"Harry! Upstairs, now! Just look at my carpet!"

Thomas interrupted before Harry could move.

"Allow me," he said. A polished wooden stick appeared in his hand - Harry had no idea where it came from - and he waved it.

Instantly, Harry was dry. Thomas seemed unconcerned by this miraculous act, but Harry's mind was going a hundred miles an hour.

This man - this man who said he was Harry's great grandfather - was like Harry. He was special.

"You can do it too!" Harry exclaimed. Petunia looked at Harry in shock.

"Of course," said Thomas, as if it were obvious. There was an awkward silence for a moment. "Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?"

They moved into the living room and sat on the flowery and rather hard armchairs. The room, which Harry had always thought quite plush, suddenly looked rather drab compared to Thomas' evident class.

"Tea?" asked Thomas.

"I'll put the kettle-"

Thomas interrupted once again, flicking his wand - for a magic wand was what it surely was - once again. A tea set appeared on the coffee table, and the teapot began pouring itself.

Petunia looked like she was going to faint. Harry picked up his tea and took a tentative but stomach-warming sip. Unlike his Aunt, Harry was barely keeping himself in his seat. He had so many questions, questions he had wanted to ask for years. Now, maybe, this man could answer them.

"You're really my great grandfather? You don't _look_ very old."

Thomas laughed openly, a laugh that reached his eyes, and Harry thought that he might be quite nice, beneath the formality.

"You'd be surprised, Harry. I'll be one hundred and seventy this October."

"That's impossible!" said Harry.

"You will find, Harry, that with magic all things become possible."

_Magic_. The moment Thomas said it, Harry knew that this man was the real deal. Other people could do magic too! A hundred new questions burst into being in his mind. He didn't know which one to ask first.

Petunia found her voice before he could decide.

"Didn't help Lily, did it!" she spat, standing up. She hadn't touched her tea. "You people took her away and then she got blown up - there wasn't even a body to bury! I know why you're here and he's not going!"

"Wait," said Harry, disbelieving. This was news to him. He'd always been told his parents died in a car crash. "You knew? Mum was a...er..."

"Witch," supplied Thomas, "As your father was a wizard."

Thomas sighed.

"Your parents, Harry, were tragically murdered by a powerful wizard." He turned to Harry's Aunt. "And I'm afraid that you have little choice in the matter, Petunia. The Ministry of Magic has decreed that no mere Muggle shall keep a wizard from his birthright. If Harry wishes to go, then he shall."

The news that Harry's parents were murdered did little to damp his enthusiasm. Murder or car crash, they were still dead, and Harry had got used to that a long time ago.

"There's a Ministry of Magic? How many of us are there? And what's a Muggle? And where am I going? And-"

Thomas held up a hand and Harry stopped.

"In the order you asked: The Ministry is our government, there are around two million witches and wizards in Britain alone, a Muggle is a non-magical person, and you will be going - if you desire it - to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry - the finest school in the land."

Harry snorted, taking the world-changing information in his stride.

"Hogwarts?" he said incredulously, "Who came up with that?"

"A question asked by many, Harry, but I'm afraid the Lady Ravenclaw refuses to answer."

"Who's Lady Ravenclaw?"

"This is a matter for another time, I think. For now, Harry, I need your answer." Thomas looked Harry in the eyes, suddenly serious, "do you wish to embrace your birthright and join the wizarding world?"

There could only be one answer to that.

"Yes!" Harry said.

"No!" shouted Petunia, standing up again.

Both Harry and Thomas ignored her.

"Then, Harry, there is little time to waste!" He stood up quite suddenly. "Petunia, I shall be in contact. Harry, take my hand."

Harry did as he was told.

As soon as his hand gripped onto Thomas', the world twisted. Everything seemed to merge together, like a smudged painting, and a wave of dizziness took Harry. He thought he would surely throw up, but before Harry could cry out the world had already righted itself, springing back into place with a loud crack.

Only now it was different.

Harry looked around in wonder, still holding Thomas' hand. They were standing in the concourse of a large train station, a cavernous atrium with large stone pillars holding up the glass ceiling. A noisy crowd was bustling around them, a voice was echoing on a PA system, and every so often a shrill whistle could be heard.

"This way, Harry," said Thomas, leading him into the crowd.

And that was when Harry realised it. The crowd. They were all wearing strange clothes. They were all witches and wizards.

"Daily Prophet!" shouted a man ahead, standing at a stall and waving a newspaper. It seemed Thomas was heading towards him. "Minister Crouch declares a fourth legion! Read about it _only_ in the Daily Prophet!"

Thomas snatched the paper out of the man's hand.

"Oi, that's a Dupondius!"

Thomas flipped a bronze coin at the man in one fluid motion, never breaking his stride.

"What's a legion?" asked Harry, trying to keep up.

"The army," Thomas responded distractedly, somehow managing to both read the paper and navigate around the crowd, "we are currently engaged in a campaign against the Saharan warlords. And Ireland, of course."

Even Harry had heard of the Troubles, but it was a surprise to hear that wizards were involved.

"Are we winning?" asked Harry, jumping out the way of what looked like a Goblin.

"It's complicated," replied Thomas, still reading. "But you need not worry. Here in Britain you are perfectly safe: our borders are protected night and day by the Home Legion. The Irish wouldn't dare to attack directly. Not while Merlin's citadel still stands."

"What's Merlin's citadel?"

"Not now, Harry," Thomas chided, tucking the paper under an arm. "We must purchase our tickets. Save your questions for a moment."

They walked up to a booth and promptly skipped the entire queue. Several people shouted but Thomas paid them no heed, striding up to the counter. Someone grabbed Thomas' shoulder and spun him around. He was big, bald and burly, and looked rather angry.

"Oi! I've been waitin' half an hour! Back o' the queue, mate."

The man tried to push Thomas backwards. Thomas didn't budge an inch.

"And your name is?" he asked, rather imperiously. Harry wondered if they shouldn't just join the queue.

"Don't matter, does it? You gotta queue just like everyone else, Mr. High an' Mighty."

Thomas smiled a tight smile, looking into the man's eyes.

"I think you'll find that it does matter, Mr. Bryce."

Quicker than Harry could follow, Thomas had pulled out his wand and flicked it. A bang echoed throughout the station, and the man was blasted off his feet back into the crowd. Everyone was staring at the spectacle, but no one moved to interfere.

"Let this be a lesson in respect, Mr. Bryce," said Thomas, his voice steely. "It does not do for people to forget their position. Now, my charge and I are late. Good day."

Thomas took Harry's hand again and turned back to the counter. The spotty attendant on the other side of the glass was gaping like a fish.

"An adult and a child to Sanctum, if you will. First class."

"Yes, sir, certainly sir," the boy replied, pulling several levers. Two tickets popped out of a machine in the desk. Thomas took them.

"That's five Denarii, please."

Thomas slapped 5 silver coins down on the desk and rushed away, moving towards a platform. Harry had to run to keep up.

"Come, Harry, the train leaves in two minutes!"

Harry hardly got the chance to look at the platform before they jumped onto a bottle green steam train, slamming the door behind them.

They were just in time. A whistle, a shout, and with surprising speed the train was accelerating, the platform passing away in a flash.

Thomas pulled Harry down the corridor, looking for a compartment.

"This'll do," he said, opening a door.

The compartment was huge. It looked rather comfortable, but the size was surely impossible. There were leather seats, a fireplace, a table, and several bookcases.

_Magic_, Harry thought, trying to shake off his disbelief. He wondered how exactly the room was built.

Thomas took a seat and pulled out his paper again. Harry looked around the compartment for a bit, inspecting the books (several of which looked quite interesting), before collapsing into a chair so comfortable it felt like it was about to eat him.

He had so many questions but Thomas was reading the paper. He wasn't sure if he should interrupt. After all, Thomas had been quite mean to that man Bryce, _and _Aunt Petunia, and it was true that they _did_ push in.

Harry was a bit intimidated by him. But he was also very curious.

"Can I ask a question?" he said.

Thomas' head poked over the top of the paper.

"_May _I, Harry, not _can_. And of course. Curiosity is not a sin, and you have several years of living with Muggles to get over."

"Okay," said Harry, not sure what he thought of that. It made him sound stupid. He didn't like people thinking that. "What's Merlin's Citadel?"

Thomas seemed to realise that he wasn't going to get any reading done. He put down the paper and reached into his robes, pulling out a pipe.

"Merlin's Citadel," he replied, lighting the pipe with his wand, "is the capital of wizarding Britain. It is where we are going now: the city of Sanctum. It was built by Merlin at the end of the civil war. Many say it was his finest achievement."

Thomas paused to take a puff of smoke.

"It is also where I live, and where we will be going to get you your school supplies and such. You'll be staying with me for the rest of the summer, so I expect you'll get used to the place before long."

"So Merlin was real?"

"Real? Of course he was real!" cried Thomas, almost choking on some smoke. "Never was there any man more real."

Harry frowned, confused. Thomas sighed.

"Understand this, Harry, for it is the most important thing you'll ever learn: not all wizards are equal. You remember Bryce, from the station?"

Harry nodded, unsure of what to think.

"Well, as he is beneath us, so too there are wizards so great that we cannot imagine their power. We call them the Lords of Magic, Harry, and they rule our society. Albus Dumbledore, with whom I am affiliated, is one such wizard. And Merlin, well, he was the greatest of the Greats. He lived for over a thousand years, and by his power the British Empire prospered. Of course, he died nearly fifty years ago now, but his influence still remains strong."

Thomas clearly thought a lot of this Merlin guy. Harry could only think of more questions.

"I thought you said that the Ministry ruled Britain?"

Thomas snorted.

"Well, of course, the Ministry runs much of the day to day administration of the realm. And the Minister is not without power. But its the Lords who really pull the strings, and never forget that. You'll understand it more when you're older."

Harry thought it was very odd. Lords and Ladies, empires and legions: it was like taking a trip back in time.

"So this Dumbledore guy is the Headmaster of Hogwarts?"

"_Lord_ Dumbledore, Harry. And yes, he is, among other things, the Headmaster of Hogwarts school. I doubt you'll ever speak to him personally, of course. He's a very busy man. But you might. If you ever do, remember you manners. Our family has followed him since even before he established himself, and has been afforded great honour for it."

Harry was reminded of what Thomas said to that Bryce man. _It does not do for people to forget their position._ Thomas was clearly quite important, or at least thought himself so.

"How come Merlin was so old? And how come _you're_ so old? Do wizards live forever?"

Thomas looked pensive for a moment.

"Technically, no, wizards are not immortal. Left to the ravages of nature, our natural lifespan is but a mere one hundred and fifty years or so."

That sounded like a long time to Harry.

"However, with the aid of certain spells and potions, we may stay youthful forever. If we are good enough at magic, that is. Or rich enough to pay others to cast the spells on us. It is a rare skill."

Harry hoped he was good at magic. In all the years he had lived with the Dursleys, it was magic that had kept him sane.

The compartment fell silent for a moment. Thomas took the chance to look back at his paper; for now, the flood of questions had stopped.

Harry got up and walked over to the window. The train must have been on a hill, because all he could see was sky. Harry reached the glass and gasped.

The train wasn't on a hill. The train wasn't even on the ground. It was speeding through the air on an ethereal track, only visible when the sun caught it at a certain angle.

And that was when Harry saw it. The train was heading straight for it.

A gleaming city, sitting on an island of rock, floating on the clouds. Its towers were white and tall, its parks beautifully green, and right at its centre were four circular towers greater than all the others, piecing the sky, shining with the brilliance of the sun.

It was the most amazing thing Harry had seen in his life.

"The city of Sanctum," Thomas said from behind Harry, having noticed his gaze. "Your new home."


	3. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Chapter 2**

"Spanish oranges! Oranges the size of yer 'ead! Just a dupo each! Step right up sir..."

"Wands! Amulets! Charms and bangles! All kinds of magical artefacts, at shockingly low prices! You sir, yes you! Are you satisfied with your -"

"- Harry? Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, continuing to try to look in every direction at once. The city was huge, and overflowing with magic.

"Good," said Thomas, "as this is important. Now, as I was saying, a sestertius is equivalent to a British pound, and a denarius is worth four sestertii..."

Harry tuned out Thomas' lecture on wizarding money, nodding at appropriate moments. All he wanted to do was explore the city. The train had pulled into a vast cavern in the bedrock of the island, and every sight since had been filled with marvels. Walking through Sanctum was like visiting a castle, only everything looked new. The city had been constructed like a work of art.

The maze-like lanes were full of statues of white marble and grand arches; families rested for lunch in the many gardens interspersed among the busy streets. The sound of bubbling fountains could be heard underneath the excited chatter of the crowd. A bell rang twelve times somewhere in the distance: noon.

The large market square through which they were passing was a lively one, and showed no sign of closing for lunch. Stalls were crammed into every space available: merchants were peddling their exotic wares, their canny customers feeling fruit, haggling for better prices.

Thomas didn't even spare it a glance. His stride had a well-practised wilfulness to it: the sights and sounds of the city were familiar to him. A gap appeared in the crowd and they dove into it, heading for a narrow alley leading away from the square.

"...of course aurei are rarely used by the common people: far too valuable to carry around in your pocket! I'll show you some later though, just so you recognise them..."

The alleyway gave way to a much wider street, a large promenade lined with shops. These shops, however, were nothing like those of the small streets they'd just passed through: they were a much grander affair. Their glass windows were packed with inviting displays, their signs inlaid with gold and doormen stood at their entrances, greeting the customers and taking their cloaks.

The customers were different too. They were of a more dignified – or arrogant - poise, perfectly turned out, with children kept to heel. Gone were the screams of delight from little girls running through fountains, gone too was the becking of salesmen; instead, just a calm murmur, lapping at Harry's ears like a gentle sea.

"Here we are, Harry: the Thoroughfare," said Thomas, "We're heading for Madam Malkin's."

Madam Malkin's turned out to be a clothes shop. The man on the door didn't even need to look at Thomas – upon their approach the front door swung open in welcome.

"Morning, sir," said the man on the door.

Thomas nodded to him before dragging Harry into the shop. Madam Malkin's turned out to be a small, cosy affair, more akin to a boutique than a Muggle high street store. Everything looked very expensive. A tall, thin and quite beautiful girl greeted them.

"Mr. Potter! How wonderful to see you again!"

"Good afternoon, Madam. I trust I find you well?"

"Of course, of course!" she replied, then turned to Harry, giving him a quick once over. Harry was suddenly very aware of his scruffy jeans and baggy t-shirt. "And who do we have here?"

Thomas gave Harry a gentle push forwards.

"Allow me to introduce my grandson, Harry Potter. Harry, meet Madam Malkin."

_This _was Madam Malkin? Harry mentally kicked himself. Of course she was. He'd already been told wizards could stay young forever. Harry tried to get over his shock and held out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," he said, trying to be polite. Malkin looked at his hand strangely, as if it were an alien object. Thomas coughed.

"You'll have to excuse Harry, Madam; we've yet to teach him proper etiquette. Raised by Muggles for most of your life, if you'd believe it."

Madam Malkin looked at his jeans again with a slight curl to her lip. It was clear she had no trouble believing it.

"Quite all right, Mr. Potter. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Harry. You'll be wanting a full wardrobe, I presume?"

Harry looked up at Thomas. That sounded like a lot of work, but it'd be nice to have decent clothes for once.

"Indeed, of your finest cut, if you will. And something off the shelf for him to wear until that's done, I think. We can't go to The Willow like this."

"The Willow?" Malkin replied, a speculative tone to her voice. She put an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Sounds like quite the day you have ahead of you, young master. Come on, lets get you measured up."

She led him away to a side room, empty but for a pedestal in the centre. Two other women – both of them as beautiful as Malkin – awaited them there.

"Onto the platform, then, Harry," Malkin said as soon as the door was shut. Harry silently obeyed. Suddenly, his T-shirt was yanked off by hands from behind him; Harry yelped and tried to snatch it back. The assistant looked shocked. Madam Malkin clucked impatiently.

"Do try to stay calm, Harry. And still. You're going to have to get those silly Muggle ideas out of your head sooner or later."

Harry went red, not really sure what she was talking about. He hated it when people made him look stupid. Nonetheless, he stayed still when the assistant came back to take his jeans. He looked nervously at his boxers.

Madam Malkin noticed his gaze and smiled.

"Don't worry – you keep those!"

Her assistants giggled, and Harry went red again. He was just glad Thomas wasn't around to see this.

"Now, Harry, don't be alarmed. You'll get a better fit if you don't move."

Confused, Harry watched as she began moving her wand in complex motions, and a curtain of sparkling silver light shimmered into being in front of him; settling around him, it twisted and contorted until it hung around him very closely, looking something like a translucent silver robe.

Madam Malkin seemed to frown in concentration for a moment, and Harry could see her wand moving and twisting tiny amounts, each movement making some minute difference to the robe of light. Finally, she seemed satisfied.

"Marietta – if you would?"

One of the assistants came forward with a vial, and touched it to the silver light. Instantly the light was sucked into the tube, which she hastily corked.

"Excellent, Harry! Your robes should be ready in a week. I'm sure you'll like them. In the meantime..."

She flicked her wand again and a smart black robe unfolded itself from the air and dumped itself over his head. Harry put his arms through the sleeves as an outer robe followed, doing itself up as it landed.

"I've done the buckles for you today, but you'll have to learn how to do them properly in the future, understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry replied, stepping off the platform.

For the first time, she smiled with warmth.

"You're a good boy, Harry. Now, go on to Mr. Potter – I'm sure he's getting impatient."

Harry almost ran out of the door, keen to get back outside. Thomas was waiting for him.

"All done?" He looked at his timepiece. "Just in time for lunch!"

Harry was shocked to realise he was quite hungry. His stomach rumbled as if on cue.

"Quite," Thomas quipped, a smile on his face.

The Thoroughfare was busier than it had been when they entered Madam Malkin's. It wasn't quite as packed as the market, but there was now a reasonable flow of people – almost all of them heading in the same direction.

"Where's everyone going?" Harry asked as Thomas led him against the direction of the crowd, ambling at a relaxed pace. Every so often he would nod to someone in recognition.

"The Chamber of Warlocks – one of the four towers at the centre of the city. It's going to be an historic decision, if it passes."

"It?"

"Minister Crouch's new legion. The Chamber of Warlocks is our highest court, and have the right to declare the Minister's actions illegal."

"Oh," Harry replied, not sure what to say. This was the kind of thing Uncle Vernon would always tell him was for grown-ups. "Do you think it'll pass?"

"Most likely. Only LeFay, Lucena and Black are against it, and they just don't have enough influence in the Chamber. It's remarkable it came this far."

Harry still didn't really understand everything Thomas was talking about, but he was getting a better idea. The whole thing seemed an awful lot like the Muggle world. Harry thought he preferred magic to politics – Uncle Vernon, for once, was right. Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking questions.

"Who're they? Those people?"

"_They,_ Harry, are the Ladies LeFay and Lucena, and Lord Black. If I were you, I should hope that I never meet them." Thomas paused. "Lady Lucena killed your grandfather. My son."

Harry stopped walking in shock.

"She's a murderer and just walks around? Why haven't the police arrested her?" he exclaimed, anger in his voice.

"Have you listened to nothing I've said?" snapped Thomas, "she is a Lady of magic. No one dares to punish her, not even the other Greats."

Harry looked at his feet, embarrassed yet still angry. Someone should have done something to punish her, he thought.

"I apologise, Harry," Thomas said, his voice returning to normal, "I share your frustration. But when the Lords fight, there are no winners. Grindelwald taught us that. It is... _better_ this way."

The bitterness of his tone betrayed his words, and for the first time Harry felt a real connection to this man who had so suddenly entered his life. Some things were just wrong. He clenched his fists. _Lucena_, he thought. _I will remember that name_.

A bell rang from the centre of the city. One o'clock. It seemed to jog Thomas from their conversation.

"Come, Harry, some food in your stomach will raise your spirits. The Willow is just around the corner."

They turned the corner, passing into a smaller street. The Willow lay before them.

Whatever Harry had been expecting, it hadn't been this. It was... shabby. The windows were so covered in grime that they were opaque, the sign over the door was worn and in disrepair. It was the last place Harry would expect someone like Thomas to go.

Thomas, for his part, was smiling down at Harry.

"Since this is your first day in our world, this shall be an important lesson. Appearances, Harry, are often deceiving."

They walked to the door and Thomas pushed it open, ushering Harry inside.

Harry gasped.

There was no floor. There were no walls, nor any ceiling. They were standing in what appeared to an endless starry expanse, yet Harry could feel a hard floor beneath his feet. The sounds of a string quartet drifted gently through the air, mingling with a gentle murmur of talk and the clink of cutlery. Dotted around the room (for a room it had to be) were elegantly laid tables, lit by candlelight and starlight. It was beautiful.

A waiter was walking towards them.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said, barely above a whisper, "may I take your name?"

"We'll be using Lord Dumbledore's table," Thomas replied, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder.

There was a barely noticeable look of surprise on the waiter's face before he collected himself.

"Certainly, sir. Your mark?"

Thomas' wand appeared in his hand as the waiter produced a small glass sphere. A tap of the wand to it turned the glass green.

"Very good, sir. This way please."

They were led to a small table a fair way from the others. The waiter seated them both, and gave them menus before retreating. The menu was in French. _Salade de Homade_, _Coquille St. Jacques Grill__é__e..._ Harry had no idea what any of it meant. Whatever they were, Harry was pretty sure that burger and chips wasn't on the menu.

"Um..." he began, not sure how to broach the topic.

"Worry not, Harry. Today, I will order for you. You'll be learning French at Hogwarts, so next time you can order for me." Thomas gestured to the waiter, who was lurking in the shadows at a tactical distance. He stepped forward into the light.

"Two of the scallops to start, please, and two veal for mains. I'll have a glass of the _Domaine Gavoty_, and Harry will have – hang on – Harry, do you drink wine?"

_Alcohol!_ Harry straightened eagerly. Aunt Petunia never let him have wine at home.

"Yes!"

Thomas gave him a penetrating stare.

"Hrm. Perhaps we'll tackle that at a later date. My charge will have a pear juice."

Harry slouched back, disappointed.

"Certainly, sir."

The waiter took their menus and floated back into the shadows. Harry played with one of his forks as their glasses filled themselves with drink. An uncomfortable silence descended.

"Sit up straight, Harry. Slouching is for those with shame."

Harry felt a twinge of irritation with Thomas' superior attitude. He fought down the urge to rebel and slouch further. Thomas was taking him away from the Dursleys. He was everything Harry had ever wished for. If sitting straight was the cost, then he'd sit straight. Just as he did, their starters appeared. Harry didn't recognise it, but it smelt good.

"Better, Harry. Do dig in. Now, there are a number of items of which you should be appraised, before you journey further into our world. Things that you should know. Things about a man who was more than a man..." Thomas leaned forward to whisper, a strange, almost fearful, look on his face. "Lord Voldemort."

It might have been just Harry, but it seemed to him like the light of the stars dimmed at the name; the candles flickered as if struggling to stay alight. For the first time, Harry saw that magic could be scary.

"Also known as Lord Slytherin, or The Necromancer," continued Thomas, his voice gaining a forced breezy air, rushing away from what was said. "The youngest of all the Lords until his death, but the most terrifying. I met him but once, and am glad that the experience was never repeated. He had done something to himself, something hideous. A crime against nature and magic. Death was with him, always, just as a Dementor carries despair."

"What's a Demen-"

"Never mind. It's not important. What I'm trying to tell you, Harry, is that he was evil. Not just a bad person, but insidious. Like a rot upon society. Unfortunately, not all saw him that way - he was a popular wizard. Not many know this, so don't spread it around - but for a time it looked like it would come to war. That is, until Halloween, 1981."

Thomas paused to take a sip of his wine.

"I'm afraid there's no other way to say it. On that night, Lord Slytherin himself killed your parents. And then he tried to kill you, Harry, though you were but a year old. And then something happened, I don't know what. I suspect Lord Dumbledore has divined it. Whatever it was, you were The Necromancer's undoing. The man who commanded death met his own by your hand, Harry."

Harry was shocked. It was the kind of thing that only existed in fairy tales. It was unbelievable in some way that the existence of wizards was not. It wasn't that Harry refused to believe it – he had no reason to doubt Thomas – but, like all life-altering news, it simply failed to assimilate itself into his mind. He knew it, but it wouldn't sink in. Not yet.

"As a result," Thomas said, seemingly oblivious to Harry's inner turmoil, "the name 'Harry Potter' is known throughout the wizarding world. Perhaps not by simpletons like Malkin, but any family of note will know your story. Anyone with any interest in politics will understand the importance of the so-called 'Boy Who Lived'."

Their starters disappeared in silence, the veal appearing in its place. It looked rather dainty, Harry noted absent-mindedly. Pretty as a picture.

"I'm famous?" he asked, eventually. Thomas took a bite and savoured it before answering.

"Of a sort. You're not famous like Viktor Krum is. You don't have, ah, 'fans'. But you are _known_. You are mentioned in books. Papers have been written on you. You must be very careful, Harry, both in Sanctum and Hogwarts. No one knows what happened that night. And there are many who would go far to find out, more who would sell you out for a handful of coin. Choose your friends wisely. But that brings us to happier talk! You'll be wanting to know all about Hogwarts, of c-"

"By Jupiter! It _is_ you, Thomas, you old rogue!"

Harry jumped at the interruption, its sheer volume breaking the tranquillity of the restaurant. A handsome, powerfully built man was striding towards their table from across the expanse, a harassed looking waiter trailing him.

"Please, sir, if you would return to your table, this area is restric-"

"Nonsense, my man! Thomas and I are old friends, aren't we?"

The waiter turned to Thomas, who surveyed the man.

"Legate Black, you are drunk. I would appreciate it if you would let my charge and I dine in peace."

"Drunk? Drunk? Ha! I'll have you know I haven't been drunk since James and I-"

Abruptly, Thomas stood. He was quivering with anger.

"You do **not** mention his name, Black. You have no right. That bridge was burnt long ago. That you dare..."

He seemed unable to finish his sentence. For his part, Harry was entirely lost, but was pretty sure this Legate Black had mentioned his father as if they had been friends.

Black stood defiant of Thomas' anger, his powerful presence dwarfing Thomas' quiet dignity. For a moment Harry thought they might come to blows, but unexpectedly, Black relaxed, turning his attention to Harry.

"Juno's cunt, it can't be young Harry? Not so young anymore, eh? Going to Hogwarts, I suppose? You know, my son is of a similar age, you should meet up on the train... maybe he can pass on a few stories of the infamous Marauders, scourge of Hogwarts! James would never have wanted his son raised by a stuffy old-"

"That is quite enough," Thomas said. Though his rage appeared to have passed, he still looked on the verge of violence. "Harry, we're leaving. I find The Willow's service to have taken a disappointing turn."

Without allowing Harry to take a bite more, he grabbed his arm and practically dragged him from the building, the chuckles of Legate Black following them.

Bright sun and refreshing air met them. Harry had forgotten, in the dark of The Willow, that it was still midday. It seemed wrong, somehow.

"I think it's time to go home, don't you?" said Thomas, apparently back to normal. "You can get a bite to eat at the house. The nearest Floo station is this way."

Thomas proceeded to lead him through a confusing series of small alleys, all conversation of Hogwarts forgotten. At last they passed into a large undecorated square, packed with wizards and witches in a rush. Along three sides of the square were lines of fireplaces. People were walking out of some, and walking into others.

After everything Harry had seen that day, what was one more oddity?

They queued for a fireplace, and Thomas threw a handful of powder into it.

"Remember this," was all he said before he pulled Harry into the fire with him, before muttering "Oswald Lane."

It was like being dropped down a trap door. While being spun around over and over again. With someone stuffing a handful of ash in your mouth.

At least it was quick. Before Harry could panic, it was already over, the tunnel of fire spitting them out through another fireplace, onto a quiet suburban street. Trees lined the cobbled road, their leaves rustling gently in the wind. There was very little other noise, the sounds of the inner city quiet at this distance. It was a very peaceful place.

They walked down the road before stopping outside the large Number Five, a beautiful detached house with a surprisingly large amount of garden for a city home.

"Welcome to your new home," Thomas said with a smile. He opened the gate and paused. "Goodness, I think I can smell Marissa's famous chocolate cake! A fine welcome indeed! Come. We shall have tea and cake, and I can tell you all about Hogwarts."


	4. Chapter 3

**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Chapter 3  
**

Life with the Potters could not have been more different from the Dursleys. For all his childhood Harry had lived frugally: his room was the smallest, his birthday presents the cheapest. Any luxury item he wanted had to be bought for himself after many months of saving. The Potters, however, spoilt him. He was still trying to get used to the casual disregard for cost that the Potters displayed daily.

Like the rest of the house, his room here was luxurious. It looked like something from a magazine – or at least, it had when Harry first moved in. It now showed the common signs of a young boy's presence: his robes from the day before strewn over the floor and on the back of his chair; a set of animated toy soldiers were waging eternal war against each other across his carpet.

Harry sat on the edge of his king-size bed, watching the battle progress. It was early morning; he would be expected at breakfast soon. Several weeks had passed since he moved in with the Potters and he had achieved something of a routine. He would get up every morning at seven, enticed to leave the comfort of his duvet by the smell of freshly baked bread. After breakfast he would wash and struggle to dress, still getting used to the intricate robes that were expected of him by Thomas and Marissa – though he barely saw them. Thomas was rarely around during the day, busy doing something political. Harry actively avoided Marissa. She was nice enough, but she had taken it upon herself to teach Harry wizarding etiquette.

Harry hadn't even heard of "etiquette" before he met Marissa. Learning about wand-tapping and the noble families was not what he expected from the magical world. So Harry usually spent his days alone, escaping Marissa as soon as he could, either exploring the city or looking through books in the Potters' small library. Books of _real_ magic: spells and rituals, scrying and flying, apparation and apparitions. Lots of it needed a wand; some of it didn't. He was itching to try it out, but Thomas had banned him from using magic until he got to Hogwarts.

"Magic can be dangerous, Harry," he had said, "always remember that."

Harry had kept his promise, but he disagreed. He had used magic loads of times at the Dursleys. Sure, it didn't always go to plan, but Harry had never felt in _danger_. Using magic just felt completely natural. The idea of magic being dangerous seemed as silly as saying breathing was dangerous! Harry hadn't told any of that to Thomas, not sure what he would think of Harry running around using magic without supervision. He had simply nodded and made his promise, and he hadn't touched magic since.

"Harry!" a feminine voice called from downstairs, "Breakfast in five minutes! And wear your slippers!"

Harry sighed and got up to embark on a quest for the hated slippers. He didn't see what was wrong with walking around barefoot, but apparently this was an etiquette thing. One wore slippers and a dressing gown to breakfast. After putting the gown on, Harry found his slippers being used as a command centre by the army figurines. He reluctantly tipped them out before running downstairs to the dining room. The early morning sun was shining through the large windows, giving the airy room a warm glow. Thomas and Marissa were waiting for him there, both of them in dressing gowns and slippers.

"Ah, Harry, there you are!" said Marissa, her voice cultured yet warm. She was, like the rest of the wizarding rich, a vision of near perfection, with a youthful face, clear skin and glossy brown hair that fell past her shoulders. Having spent a little time in and around Sanctum, Harry was learning to spot the little ways witches and wizards changed their appearance to make themselves stand out. While every one of them was beautiful enough to walk a runway in the Muggle world, when surrounded by such perfection he supposed they felt too normal. Marissa's "personal touch" was a light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Harry still hadn't figured out what Thomas' was. Perhaps it was the newspaper he was never seen without.

"Morning," he replied, taking his seat at the ornate table. Like every item within 5 Oswald Lane, it was beautifully made yet not overstated, artful but meant to be used.

As soon as he was seated the servants brought breakfast in. Of everything in his new life it was the servants that shocked Harry the most. They weren't really people. They were magical constructs, people transfigured out of ashes by skilled craftsmen. They had no minds nor souls of their own; instead they were spelled with hundreds of charms to make them behave like people – at least enough to be able to take commands and perform chores. To own one was a sign of wealth. The Potters had two.

Though they were undeniably useful, Harry couldn't help but be unnerved by them. They were creepy, their unseeing glassy eyes completely emotionless as they went about their business. After placing the food on the table they left as silently as they had come. Harry had learnt by now not to thank them – Marissa had gently but firmly chided him when he tried. One did not draw attention to the help, especially when it lacked a soul.

The room filled with the unmistakable quiet of people focused on food. Tea was poured, jam spread on toast and croissants buttered. Thomas put his paper down.

"Any plans for today, Harry?" he asked.

Harry almost shrugged, but stopped himself. Like slouching, Thomas didn't like shrugging.

"Not really," he responded, taking a big bite from his toast.

"Good," he said, "because Marissa thought you'd enjoy a treat today."

"A treat?" Harry said, hoping it wasn't more etiquette lessons. Thomas looked to Marissa.

"Well, with Hogwarts coming up so soon, you'll need one anyway," she said. Harry got the impression she was being deliberately vague, teasing the mystery out. "And you're not a real wizard until you hold one for the first time."

A thrill of excitement went through Harry, his toast forgotten. If he was right about what she was saying…

"What is it?" he asked eagerly. Marissa laughed.

"Why, a wand, of course!"

* * *

The two of them left the house an hour later. Harry had rushed like a madman through his morning routine, throwing his robes on and furiously trying to flatten his hair. Though he was ready in record time, his hurry was pointless: Marissa wouldn't let him out the door until she was entirely satisfied with his appearance. So it was with flat hair and smart robes that Harry left the house to get his wand, practically vibrating with excitement.

They used the Floo to get into the city centre. It was immediately obvious, even from the Floo station, that something was happening.

_Boom boom boom. Boom boom boom._

Drums.

The deep, steady, beat of drums rattled the city with a military rhythm. If he listened hard, he could hear the unmistakable fanfare of trumpets. Occasionally the cheer of a crowd would make itself heard before the next beat drowned it out. All around them people were rushing out of the courtyard, eager to find the source of the music. The whole thing reminded Harry of a carnival.

"What's happening?" he asked, wand momentarily forgotten.

"It's a parade," Marissa replied, frowning slightly. "I'd forgotten it was happening. I suppose you want to see it?"

It didn't take much thinking.

"Just a quick look?" he said, "and we can get the wand after?"

"That sounds satisfactory. Besides, the parade is in the way of Ollivander's anyway. Come on then."

They made their way through the winding streets, following the steady stream of people. As they walked, the music and cheering got steadily louder, before –

"Woah!" cried Harry as they turned onto a wide street. He rushed to get a good position in the crowd, not caring if Marissa was still with him. The parade was passing right in front of them.

And what a parade it was.

A group of trolls, easily ten feet tall, were at the front of the column; each of them held a massive drum and was beating it with a club, perfectly in time. At this short distance, it was enough to make Harry feel like his organs were vibrating with the sound.

_Boom. Boom boom. Boom boom._

With the trolls was a squad of wizards playing the unmistakable _rat-a-tat-tat_ of snare drums, filling the space between the trolls' deep bass with a marching rhythm.

Marching to the beat was a large troop of wizards and witches, each of them clad in a combination of robes and armour: an inner robe underneath a gleaming breastplate and skirt of metal sheaths. They held their wands across their chests as they marched, their left arms swinging like a pendulum. There were many hundreds of them, each of them stern faced and straight backed. Though the crowd cheered, not a single soldier turned their head.

And then came the mighty siege weapons, moving within another two lines of marching wizards. Harry could only guess at their purpose. The large floating spheres of silver, bobbing as they moved, were completely mysterious. They were followed by what might have been cannons, had a cannon been shaped like a wand and made of sparkling quartz crystal. Though he had no real reason to think so, it seemed to Harry that they were not so unlike Muggle weapons. He wondered what they shot.

After the cannons came horseless carts carrying a multitude of giant Totem poles, each at least 50 feet tall, though they were now on their sides. They had been carved beautifully, animals and fierce faces built into the sides, facing all directions. Harry looked at them and imagined wizards dancing around them, performing some strange ritual to curse their enemies.

The last of the Totem poles passed, giving way to the rear of the parade. It was here that the trumpeters were, sounding their fanfare as they walked in front of a group of wizards on horseback. It was immediately clear that these were the commanders, and not just because they had horses. Their bearing was entirely different to the other soldiers. They had an arrogant look about them, staring as they were with imperious gazes down at the crowds, as if it were perfectly natural that they were above the ordinary people.

Riding at the front of this group was the man who had interrupted Harry's dinner at The Willow. Legate Sirius Black. He seemed much the same as before: broad-shouldered, artlessly handsome, his uniform deliberately unkempt. Occasionally he would wave to the crowds. When he did, a loud cheer would go up – he was clearly a popular man.

Riding next to him was a man of greater reserve. He rode without expression, his glinting eyes travelling over the crowd, constantly evaluating. He had a hard face and slicked back silver-grey hair. Though he looked as youthful as any other wizard, for some reason Harry thought him _old_. He carried a kind of quiet authority that Black lacked. If asked, there was nothing about him that Harry could say gave this impression. Nonetheless, Harry's eyes were inevitably drawn to him.

And his eyes were drawn to Harry's. They narrowed briefly; then, without any warning, he dismounted. The parade continued.

He walked towards Harry, the crowd instinctively thinning before him.

"Damn!" Harry heard Marissa mutter near his ear, "I should've known. Too late now. Harry, be very careful, this man is-"

"Harry Potter," the man said as he approached, cutting Marissa off. He stretched the name out, letting it roll around his tongue like a fine wine. "Are you enjoying my parade?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied nervously, intimidated by the man's powerful presence. And there was something else too, something about him that made Harry wary. Even without Marissa's warning, Harry would have felt it: this was a dangerous man.

"Sir?" the man said, seemingly amused, "Have you not been taught to address me properly, child?" He looked to Marissa accusingly. "My girl, I knew you for an oath-breaker, but I thought you would at least remember your history."

Marissa took his rebuke admirably: she did not blush, nor did she look down. Instead, she curtsied.

"He is still learning, your Grace," she replied, ducking her head – very briefly - in deference. Harry looked to her in confusion. She ignored him. "Your Grace, may I introduce to you Harry Potter, whom you know. Harry, this is his Grace, the Warlock Alfred Potter, Warden of Camelot, patriarch of our House."

Harry looked at the man – Alfred – curiosity overcoming hesitation. _This _man was his ancestor? He now knew, from the books in the Potters' library, and from Thomas, that the Potters were a very old family. That meant Alfred Potter had to be at least 800 years old. Harry couldn't even imagine being alive for so long. There was no familial resemblance to be found in his face, as could be seen between himself and Thomas, no sign that this man was the original Potter. For his part, Alfred stared at Harry in return, waiting for something.

Marissa nudged him, whispering under her breath, "_Bow_, Harry."

For a moment Harry thought of refusing. Why should he bow to this man who had done nothing for him? Why should he bow to a man clearly at odds with Marissa, whom he had come to like? But Marissa wanted him to obey these silly rules. It was clearly important to her, even if Alfred was mean to her.

So Harry bowed. Not deeply, nor for long, but he bowed. A brief incline of his head that seemed to satisfy Alfred immensely.

"Excellent," he said, "it does not do for us to forget our position, Harry. Family is important. Order – hierarchy - is important. When you're older you'll understand."

Though he said Harry's name, he looked at Marissa as he said this. She said nothing.

After a brief silence –

"I must go," he said, "but this has been all too brief. Harry, should you ever tire of the upstarts, you will always be welcome at the ancient seat of our House. Scry my name with your blood and you shall see the way. For now: farewell!"

He turned back to his horse and galloped away, back towards the now-distant parade. Harry looked around. The crowd had moved on, their conversation mostly ignored but for a few curious stares. What was a few people talking compared to the splendour of Sirius Black's legion? He looked up at Marissa, vaguely aware that she was more affected than she looked.

"Well," she said, the word shaking slightly – with relief or anger Harry couldn't say. "How about that wand?"

* * *

It didn't take long to reach the wand shop – if it could be classed as a shop. Ollivander the wandmaker lived and worked in a squat marble tower, about half-way between the Thoroughfare and the Ministry. Two Aurors – highly-trained magical police – guarded the entrance, over which a plaque proclaimed:

OCTAVIUS OLLIVANDER

HSc, MPyk, WG, MOr(II)

Master Wandcrafter Since 1300AD

"What do they all mean?" asked Harry, confused by the long list of letters.

"It's a list of his qualifications," Marissa replied, "let's see if I can remember them all… Hogwarts' Scholar is the first one – you'll have that after your name too, one day – and the next must be 'Master of Physicks', which is the highest honour available in that field. Hmm… 'WG' means that he's a member of the Wandmakers' Guild – a very secretive lot. And the last is an Order of Merlin, Second class."

"Physics?" asked Harry as an Aurors opened the door to the tower, "isn't that a Muggle thing?"

"Most certainly not, Harry Potter!" came a voice from inside, making Harry jump.

A man stood in the doorway, apparently waiting for them. It was immediately obvious that he didn't put the same effort into his appearance as the rest of the wizarding elite. His white hair was standing on end, like he'd been electrocuted, and there were soot marks on his face. Most shocking of all was his age. He was middle-aged. He even had a few wrinkles. Behind him was a messy workshop, full of mysterious tools. He turned back into the tower as he spoke, clearly expecting them to follow as he delivered an impromptu lecture.

"Physicks, like most things, was begun by the ancient Greeks," he began, rummaging around for strange implements as he spoke, "from there it diverged into two studies – Muggle physics and magical physicks. Both try to do the same thing: explain the fundamental workings of the world. But naturally, the Muggles don't know about magic. There's some overlap between the two, of course, mechanics and magnetism and suchlike, but the Muggles know nothing about Generative Energetics or the M-field."

Harry didn't know anything about those either but didn't say anything, not wanting to interrupt. He hadn't seen anything like this in Thomas' books. Marissa, however, seemed to have no such compunctions.

"We've come for a wand, Professor."

Ollivander glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Of course you have," he said, his voice clipped, "Why else would you be here?"

Marissa clearly didn't know what to say to that.

"Well then, Harry Potter, let's have a look at you. Stand in the circle, now."

Harry looked around and saw a metal circle set into the stone floor, right in the middle of the workshop. It was one of the few places that wasn't covered in parchment and half-finished wands. He stood inside and waited.

Apparently finding what he was looking for, Ollivander turned to face him and flicked a wand. At first Harry thought nothing had happened, but then he caught it: a deep hum, barely perceptible. It seemed to be coming from the metal ring.

"Fascinating," murmured Ollivander as he listened carefully. Whatever he heard caused a new burst of activity from the man. He ran out of the workshop for a few moments. When he returned he was carrying a large golden-orange feather.

He walked towards Harry, holding the feather before him almost like a sword. As he got closer, the humming increased in pitch and volume.

"Yes, yes," he said to himself, "phoenix feather for certain… but what wood?"

Harry was fascinated and confused by the whole process. He was about to ask a question when he caught Marissa shaking her head in the corner of his eye. He turned to her and she held her finger to her lips. Ollivander, it seemed, liked to work in silence.

He muttered a bit more before summoning a vial of grey liquid.

"Hand," Ollivander commanded.

Harry held out his hand. Ollivander emptied the surprisingly heavy liquid onto it and waited.

Nothing happened.

"_Most_ fascinating," he said once more. And again this pronouncement was followed by a bout of rushed activity; this time the wandmaker (who Harry now thought wasn't _all quite there_) came back holding a handful of wooden cubes, each one made from a different tree. Without warning he threw them at Harry.

Most of them clattered to the floor but one of them froze in mid-air, directly above the metal ring. Ollivander plucked it from where it was floating and examined it.

"Hmm… Holly and Phoenix feather, Mr. Potter. A most unusual combination."

It seemed speaking was once more allowed.

"Unusual in a good way?" asked Harry, hoping there wasn't anything wrong with his magic.

Ollivander huffed.

"Unusual in an unusual way, Mr. Potter. Whether good or bad is not up to me. I supply the tool, but it's down to you how you use it. Now, let's get you measured up."

After cleaning the liquid from Harry's hand ("It's Mercury, Potter, can't you tell?") he ran his wand down the length of Harry's arm.

"11 inches, I think, will do us nicely. Wait here."

He disappeared out of the workshop again. This time he was away longer before coming back. He was holding a long, thin, box.

"Try this", he said, pulling a wand out. It was simply constructed, the lightly coloured wood unmarred by any embellishments.

Harry reached out his hand. Slowly, tentatively, he took hold of the handle. It fit his hand well, though with room for him to grow. Ollivander let go of the shaft and Harry breathed deeply, fascinated by the feel of a wand in his hand for the first time. It felt…right.

There were no fireworks, or puffs of smoke, no fire and no fanfare. But at the same time, Harry couldn't help standing taller, his head held higher. He felt like he could do anything.

Then the moment passed, and he was just holding a piece of wood.

Whatever had happened had not gone unnoticed.

"Excellent!" said Ollivander. "Holly, 11 inches, with a Phoenix feather core in a silver housing."

He looked at Marissa. "It comes to 500 Denarii, if you please."

Harry was shocked. That was a lot of money. His shock must have shown on his face.

"The price of quality, Harry," said Marissa, smiling, "I shall not regret it. This is the most important purchase of your life."

She took out a small bag of coins, weighed it in her hand, and passed it to Ollivander. He had the grace not to count it there and then, instead tucking it inside his robes.

"Good day, Mrs. Potter. A pleasure, as always."

* * *

They left the tower, returning to the bright morning sun. As they walked, Harry tried to find somewhere to put his wand. He didn't know what to do with it – it certainly wouldn't fit in his pockets.

"There's a space in your sleeve," Marissa said, seeing Harry's indecision. "Here."

She leant down and showed him a small loop in the lining on his robe. The shaft of the wand slid in easily, leaving just the handle sticking out, lying against his wrist. Though there was 11 inches of wood up his arm, Harry couldn't feel a thing. Experimentally, he wiggled the robe. It still moved like normal fabric.

"It's in extra space," Marissa said, "Thomas made sure Malkin put it in."

"Thanks," said Harry, and he was suddenly aware that this was the first time he had said it. He felt guilty that he hadn't thought it before. "For everything, I mean. For taking me from the Dursleys, and for my room, and my wand, and Hogwarts, and… well, everything."

Marissa smiled. Not one of her polite smiles, but a proper smile that reached her eyes.

"You're welcome, Harry," she said. "Really, you have nothing to be thankful for. If we'd had our way, you'd have been with us since-"

She paused. Harry was uncomfortably aware that they had drifted on to dangerous topics.

"-since we lost your parents."

"What were they like? My parents?" Harry asked. He'd been trying to work out how to ask for days. It seemed the moment had presented itself.

Marissa was silent for a while after he asked; Harry was worried she wouldn't answer, but eventually, she spoke.

"James looked just like you, as you know. The resemblance is striking, though you have your mother's eyes. He was such a trouble maker! He took after Thomas like that, really…"

Harry couldn't imagine anyone describing Thomas as a trouble maker.

"What did dad do?" he asked, eager to know more.

"He was a Plastician – you know, a healer who de-ages people. He was so talented at Transfiguration, it took us all by surprise. We were all so proud when he got his certification – Plasticians aren't very common, you know. You have to be the best of the best to even be considered by the GCP."

"And what about my mum? What was she like?"

Marissa sighed. Harry could tell she was rather reluctant to speak.

"Your mother… yes, well, she was one of a kind. She had a vitality to her that one rarely sees. Your father met her in the summer after his 6th year and was instantly smitten. Blinded, you could say, by love. She also a rather talented witch, especially given her, well, _origins_."

Harry was rather confused by that. There was something she wasn't saying.

"What do you mean?" he asked, "what origins?"

"I'm sorry, Harry," replied Marissa, looking at him with – pity? "She was a mudblood."

"Oh," said Harry.

He had heard of them, of course. Mudbloods: Muggles who somehow ended up with magic. A few were born every year and had to be brought into the magical world by the Ministry after their accidental magic was detected. They lived a poor existence, belonging to neither world: never accepted fully by wizards, but never allowed to return to the Muggles. That his mother managed to marry a _Potter_ was remarkable. She must have been an amazing witch.

It also meant he was a half-blood, Harry realised. He should have guessed before, really, but he hadn't thought about Petunia since he had arrived in Sanctum. Briefly, he wondered if many people would care.

He decided instantly that he didn't.

"That doesn't mean she wasn't a good person," he said firmly, daring Marissa to disagree.

She put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Of course not, Harry. But – well. It was hard. Unheard of. A Potter and a mudblood! And so soon after Thomas declared for Dumbledore, breaking fealty with Lord Peverell! It was horribly timed. Just as we were regaining our reputation, a scandal like that!"

Harry remained silent. He knew Marissa was a nice person, but she worried too much about reputation. Suddenly, he didn't want to go home – not yet. He needed time to think.

"Could I go to the market?" he said, "By myself?"

Marissa looked at him piercingly.

"I understand," she said, "Dinner will be at eight."

* * *

She left him by the Thoroughfare. He knew the way to the market well by now – it had quickly become his favourite place in the city. It always seemed so _alive_. He made his way there in a sombre mood, thinking about his mother.

He would always love her, of course, but she felt distant. He didn't remember her at all. He wished he could, so that he had something to hold to when he doubted. It wasn't that he had anything against mudbloods. He'd never even met one. It was just so _inconvenient_. If only she had been Pureblood.

Harry knew that what he was feeling was selfish. How could he hold his mother's birth against her, just because it made his life a bit more difficult? His father had obviously seen something in her, something which caused him to defy his family and station. And Marissa called her "one of a kind".

Harry just wished he could've known her so he could see it too.

Eventually, he arrived at the market square.

It was much larger than he had originally thought, back when he passed through with Thomas. There were archways in the walls leading to more stalls, and beyond _them_ even more. It was very easy to get lost, each direction looking the same. Even so, Harry knew by now how to get to his favourite stalls. He went to one of them now, letting the banter of the shopkeepers wash over him, the simple, honest labour of these people washing his worries away.

That was why he liked the market so much. The Potters didn't understand. To them it was just a heaving mass of the great unwashed. But to Harry it was a refuge. The world that Thomas occupied was lavish and often awe-inspiring, but it demanded a lot of you. It was easy to forget, among the talk of politics and armies and alliances and laws, who you were or what you wanted. It was so easy to forget that he was Harry Potter who did the weeds at Privet Drive, and become Harry Potter, heir of a noble house.

It was even easy to forget that he loved his mother, and that he didn't care about blood.

So he came here to remind himself of what life was really about. The simple things. The things _he_ enjoyed, not the things he was supposed to enjoy.

At the moment, that meant doughnuts.

He'd been surprised to find it, right in the heart of wizendom. A stall in the market, selling Muggle doughnuts, the sweet smell of the cooking dough drawing a large crowd. It had probably been started by an enterprising mudblood, but it might have been a wizard, stealing the idea from the Muggle world – such things were not unheard of. Whoever they were, they did very well for themselves.

Harry approached the stall now, rummaging in his pockets for some of the coins the Potters had given him. He joined the back of the queue, prepared for a long wait, but before he could get settled the man at the counter called out to him.

"Can I help you, young master?"

Harry looked around, making sure that the man wasn't talking to anyone else. Seeing no one else step forward, he walked up to the counter, keeping an eye on the queue. Not one of them raised a protest. They just stood there, watching him with open curiosity. Looking back at them, Harry realised what had given him away.

It was his robes. Everyone else was in simple work-robes in varying states of shabbiness: a single, rather loose, black robe with no adornments. Harry, on the other hand, had 3 layers, each one of the finest material. His black inner robe covered him from neck to ankle. High collared, it was buckled to be tight around the chest but flared after the knees; over that he wore a close-fitting outer robe, a kind of long waistcoat that fell to the mid-thigh. Its buttons were made of silver, and there was a barely visible pattern of vines embroidered into the fabric. And over it all he had a heavy cape, tied around his neck and falling to his feet, lined in navy with a soft, silky material.

The overall result was that he stood out from the crowd. It was like a Muggle wearing black tie to the supermarket.

"Er, yes, please. A bag of jam ones, please," Harry said over the counter, not certain about being at the centre of attention.

"Certainly, sir," the doughnut-man replied, flicking his wand. A bag flew into Harry's hands. He could feel the warmth through the paper. "That's seven bronze, sir."

Harry counted out seven Sestertii and placed them into the man's waiting hand. Thinking again, he took out another two and gave him them as well. He did, after all, skip the queue.

The man thanked him and Harry turned away, off to find somewhere to sit and eat. He didn't have to walk far – there was a fountain near the centre of the square, and benches around it. Harry looked around. A few children, roughly his age, were sitting at one of the benches, laughing and eating. He walked over to them and sat down.

They stopped laughing.

"Hi," Harry said, opening the bag of doughnuts, "I'm Harry."

None of them replied. They just sat there, looking at him like he was an alien. One of them, a girl a few years younger than he, started speaking.

"I'm Esmee - ouch!"

She was cut off by one of the older boys kicking her in the shin.

"We have to go," he said, and they ran off, laughing once more as they went, occasionally stealing glances back at him.

Harry sighed and bit into a doughnut. He'd tried speaking to the kids here on several occasions, always with a similar result. _Perhaps I should buy a simpler robe_, he thought, before dismissing it. Marissa would never let him leave the house looking like one of the 'common people'.

"You shouldn't worry about it, you know," a voice drawled, "you're better than that."

Harry looked up. A boy was standing in front of him. A boy like him, or at least like he was meant to be: posh robes, posh voice, straight back. He had a handsome face, familiar in some way, and long black hair falling to his shoulders. After a moment, Harry remembered what Marissa had taught him.

He stood up and pulled out his wand. The boy pulled out his own, and they lightly rapped the wands together; the tap made a light _clack_ and a few motes of light glimmered for a moment before disappearing.

"Harry Potter," said Harry, introducing himself as he put his wand back up his sleeve.

"I know," said the boy with a smile - or a smirk. "I'm Titus Black. Walk with me? I'm heading to the station."

"So you're a Black," said Harry as they walked off, "any relation to Sirius Black?"

The boy laughed.

"My name precedes me!" he said, apparently happy, "Sirius Black is my father. Did you see him at the parade?"

"Yeah, and at the Willow," said Harry, "though I still don't know what the parade is _for_."

"Well then, you've got the right idea! It's not really _for_ anything. Except perhaps father's ego. Well, that's not quite true – it's a changing of the guard. Father's Legion is to take up the duties of the Home Legion, here in Britain. The current Home Legion will leave for Africa in a few days. After that the Saharan Legion will come back on leave."

"So they rotate?" said Harry.

"Exactly," replied Titus, "though I doubt McLaggen's Legion will get much leave. The war in the Sahara isn't going as well as hoped, I hear. That's why they're coming up with this new Legion." Titus sighed. "But what we really need is Merlin back. In the old days he'd just stomp over there and smack people around 'til they did what he said!"

"I guess," said Harry, "I don't see why we need the Legions at all though. I mean, everyone is always talking about how powerful the Lords are. Why don't they deal with it?"

"Well, they do, sometimes," Titus replied, "but it usually has to get pretty desperate before it comes to that. And anyway, Lord Hale is fighting in the Sahara, so _a_ Lord is doing something, at least. Anyway, enough about the war. I get too much of that at home! Father says you'll be starting at Hogwarts this year."

"Yeah," said Harry, "what's it like? Are the lessons fun?"

Titus shrugged.

"They're all right, I suppose. Charms is fun. You get to blow stuff up in Alchemy. Latin and Mathematics are boring. The best thing is Quidditch, by far."

Harry had heard of Quidditch, and seen pictures of it in Thomas' papers, but hadn't seen a game yet. He was looking forward to it – to his mind, there wasn't much more exciting than a sport played in the air. Though some of the tackles looked rather dangerous.

"I've never seen it," Harry said, "do you play?"

"A bit," said Titus, "I'm on the Gryffindor team, but I'm only on the subs for the school."

"Is it painful?"

"Oh, we don't play full-contact like in the league!" said Titus, surprised, "we're only third years, after all. We don't know how to fly yet, so we have to use brooms. But the 7th years do, and that gets pretty rough. But I haven't heard of anyone ever _dying_, so I guess it's safe enough."

Harry wasn't quite sure if that counted as "safe". He looked at Titus to see if he was being mocked. As far as he could tell, Titus was being completely serious.

He'd noticed that wizards had a rather blasé attitude towards injury. He supposed that when you could re-grow limbs, crippling injury was less of a concern.

"You'll get to see us play at Hogwarts. After seeing a game you'll come around! There's really nothing like it," said Titus.

"I'll take your word for it," said Harry with a smile.

"As well you should!" cried Titus dramatically, "Let no one doubt the word of the _most_ Noble House of Black!"

Harry snorted in amusement. He'd seen the measure of Sirius Black's _nobility_. Titus coughed.

"Yes, well, it has more effect when my great grandfather says it. You know of Lord Black, of course?"

"I've heard of him," said Harry, though only now was he making the connection between the Lord and Titus. The thought shocked him. He had estimated Titus as his equal, but he now realised that Titus must enjoy a position of privilege far above he. Nevertheless, he seemed friendly enough.

"Anyway, this is my stop," said Titus, pointing to a long staircase leading underground. Harry knew it led to one of the vast caverns beneath the city where trains came to and fro, coming to Sanctum from all over the country.

"You don't live in Sanctum?" Harry asked.

"Nah, Camelot. As much as I like Quidditch, there's something not right about living on a floating rock!"

Harry laughed and watched him as he walked away, sauntering out of sight.

The moment Harry was alone he knew he had a problem. He had no idea where he was.

"Titus!" he called out, meaning to get directions from the boy. There was no answer.

Frowning, he started walking back the way they had come. _It shouldn't be too hard to retrace my steps_, Harry thought.

He was wrong.

Twenty minutes later, he had managed to get completely lost. He had no idea where the market was, or even the way back to the stairway. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - he'd never seen this part of the city before. The streets – more like alleys - were narrow and dirty, and the buildings on either side loomed threateningly, throwing long shadows.

Occasionally he'd pass shops with boarded-up windows and worn signs. None of them looked occupied, never mind welcoming enough to give Harry the courage to ask for directions.

Getting desperate, Harry took a turning onto a slightly wider street. There were even a few people down it, all of them covered from head to toe in black cloaks, shrouding their faces.

The sign declared the street to be _Knockturn Alley_.

He hurried down it, avoiding looking at any of the strangers. A few of them stopped to stare at him, causing him to speed up. A building sense of panic was threatening to overtake him. He needed to get away from this place.

"Lost, little boy?" a voice croaked from a shadowed doorway. Harry jumped at it, his nerves highly strung as it was.

A man stepped out of the shadows. His face was horrifically scarred, disfiguring him completely. From beneath the scars a pair of yellow eyes glared, his gaze searching Harry greedily. His robe was torn and filthy, little more than a rag.

Harry took a step back.

"Those robes look mighty fine, boy," the man said, creeping towards him, "spare them for an old wolf?"

_Werewolf!_ Harry's mind screamed.

He ran.

The man cackled and Harry knew, without having to look back, that he was being chased. He ran faster, as fast as his legs could possibly carry him, passing through arches and alleys without concern for where he was going. He just needed to get away.

"Give up, little boy!" the man shouted. He sounded close. "You can't run forever!"

He was right. Harry could feel his legs getting heavier by the moment. The man was going to catch him.

Panic rising, Harry reached for his wand as he ran. He fumbled it twice before getting a grip on the handle and yanking it out.

"Got you!" a voice shouted, right behind him, and a hand grabbed his free arm, cruel yellow nails cutting into his skin.

Harry reacted on instinct.

No idea what he was doing, he spun to face the wolf-man, brandishing his wand wildly.

"_Infrege!_" he shouted, no idea what he was saying.

The man howled in pain and let go of Harry's arm, the smell of burning skin filling Harry's nose.

Harry ran again. He couldn't tell if the man was still following. He could only hear his own laboured breath, only feel the burning in his lungs.

_There!_

A fireplace lay ahead in the alley. Hope filling him, Harry put on a final burst of speed, grabbing a handful of powder from a pocket.

"Oswald Lane!" he shouted, throwing the powder into the fireplace, filling it with green fire.

He ran in.

He stepped out on the familiar Oswald Lane, a vision of sunny perfection. It felt so wrong, so at odds with the adrenaline running through his veins. Still nervous, but beginning to calm down, he paced the short distance to number 5.

The house was quiet when he entered. He headed towards the library, hoping to find someone there. He needed to be around people. He needed to feel safe.

The door to the study was ajar, and he thought he could hear voices within.

"…_yes, Harry's settling in nicely…"_ said a voice. It was Thomas.

Harry froze at the door, wondering who Thomas was talking to. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"…_Sirius Black…no, Harry doesn't know…he mustn't know, he wouldn't understand…once he's at Hogwarts Black won't be able to reach him…whatever happens, they can't meet…"_

Harry frowned, tiptoeing away as the conversation drew to a close.

_What were the Potters hiding from him? _


	5. Chapter 4

**A.N. Sorry about long update time. Hopefully, the next chapter will be much quicker coming. Thanks to Ashaya and DLP for advice. If you haven't already, you should subscribe to DLP's C2 - now the number 1 Harry Potter C2 on this site. Link in my profile.**

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Chapter 4**

Harry looked down at the book once more.

_While little more than a clever trick, the above spell is beyond the capabilities of many wizards. It requires a certain instinctual connection to magic that many lack. The wizard must project their will without an incantation to guide them - the only vehicle of thought is that of the breath. Do not be surprised if you cannot achieve it._

_Instinctual connection to magic_... was that not what Harry had always felt he possessed? Why, then, did the candle refuse to light?

Harry glared at the stubborn candle wick, before angrily blowing on it as hard as he could. He didn't know why he was even trying this. He'd pulled _Small Rituals_from the library's highest shelf on a whim. A tome of not inconsiderable weight, it declared itself suitable only for those who were intimate with the secrets of Physicks. Harry had opened it to a random page and immediately stumbled upon this small spell: lighting a candle by blowing on it. Even though he had taught himself Bluebell flames last week, this little spell fascinated him. Concentrating, Harry slipped into the now familiar mindset which brought his awareness of magic to the fore. It wasn't quite a physical sensation. He did not feel warmer, or colder. He didn't feel energised or tired. Nor did he see new things, or smell new smells. He simply felt connected to the world, as if he could dictate its contents with a thought.

Of course, at this stage I can't even light a candle, he thought with some irritation. Trying to push that annoyance away, Harry focused on the candle. He blew gently on the wick. He struggled to suppress the idea of the candle burning, keeping it out of his conscious thoughts. Visualisation would hinder the magic - his intent was to be carried by that part of his mind beneath consciousness, capable of filling in detail his waking mind could not. Instead, he focused on his breath, keeping it even and gentle, waiting for the candle to light.

Nothing happened. Harry kept blowing, gasping briefly for more air. He would not give up.

Nothing happened.

"Damn candle!" Harry snapped at the offending object. "It's a useless spell anyway!"

Harry slammed the book shut, creating a small gust of displaced air. As it passed over the candle, the wick flickered to life. A small yet unmistakable flame was lit.

Harry stared at the candle in shock.

How odd, he thought.

Reaching out, Harry snuffed the flame by pinching it between his fingers. Casually, careful not to think too hard about anything in particular, Harry puffed but once at the candle, ignoring all the advice the book had given him. Immediately, a flame sprung up.

Harry grinned. Another spell mastered, he thought with glee. He was glad Thomas had finally given him permission to use magic.

A week after Harry had got his wand, Thomas had surprised Harry by taking him aside to his study.

"Now, Harry," he had said, "there may come a time at Hogwarts where it will be... appropriate for you to use magic to defend yourself." He held up a finger to prevent questions. "Not that Hogwarts is a dangerous place, mind you. But boys have been known to get rough with each other and the reputation of the Potters at Hogwarts rests with you. We Potters have always prided ourselves on our skills with our wands. So I'm going to teach you a spell - yes, just the one - which you can use to defend yourself."

And that was how Harry learnt his first spell: the tickling jinx. Thomas said he still needed to practice, but he could still cast it well enough to make a conjured rabbit run around in confusion. Though Thomas had only taught him that one spell, it had opened the gates to many others. With permission to try all the spells Harry had been reading about, he had spent the last month learning simple - but fun - small bits of magic. He could now make blue, heatless flames that could sit in your hand without consuming your flesh, and the week previous he had mastered a pair of spells to keep you warm in winter or cool in summer. Taking Thomas' words to heart, he had tried to learn how to block spells, but the diagrams in the book were too confusing. He supposed it was the kind of thing you had to be shown.

Of course, his spellwork did not go unnoticed. Marissa noticed him practicing in the garden and decided to teach him a number of domestic spells during their sessions on etiquette. He now made his bed, brushed his teeth and tidied his hair with spells.

Between magic and etiquette - he could now tell you about all the noble titles of Britain and their modes of address - Harry found little time for anything else. And after the incident with the werewolf (which he had kept a secret from the Potters) he had lost his passion for exploring the city. From that day on, he kept to parts of the city he knew. Harry's flight from the werewolf was burnt into his memory. Some nights he dreamt about it - only in his dreams the werewolf caught him. Every time he woke from such a dream, he wondered about the mysterious spell he cast to free himself from his attacker's grasp. He could remember the incantation vividly - "_Infrege!_" - but he couldn't find it in any book. Nor did his physicks textbook say anything about spontaneous spell casting. He had tried to replicate the scenario, waving his wand and making up spells on the spot, but none of them did anything.

Like blocking, it was something that would have to wait for Hogwarts. Fortunately for Harry, his wait was over. Today was the day he would leave for school, catching the Hogwarts' Express at -

"Harry!" Marissa's voice called, "It's time to go!"

- now. Leaving Small Rituals on the table - one of the servants would put it away - Harry rushed out of the library, exiting directly into the entrance hall.

"Ah, good, there you are," Marissa said. She was dressed in a travelling cloak, Harry's large trunk sitting at her feet. "Got everything?"

"Yeah," replied Harry, "how are we getting to the station?"

Marissa scowled.

"It's 'yes', not 'yeah', as I have told you many times. Say it for me."

Annoyed at his slip, Harry repeated himself for Marissa – correctly.

"Excellent. Do try to remember at Hogwarts. Now, we will be apparating. Hold my arm."

Harry did so, making sure his foot was in contact with his trunk. Marissa looked down, then turned on the spot, towards Harry. Just before she would have put her foot into the trunk, the world blurred then righted itself in a now-familiar sensation.

The sounds of a station met them on the other side, and Harry was reminded of his first day in the wizarding world. Unlike Camelot station, however, this one was in the caverns underneath Sanctum. No one had ever bothered to enchant it with daylight, so it was a gloomy place: a large cave lit by huge torches of Gubraithian fire. Shadows flickered on the large rocky pillars holding the roof up, and all around the steady drip-drop of falling water echoed - though where the water was, Harry couldn't tell. Despite the dark surroundings, the station was filled with bustling life. As the rail crossroads of Britain, it never slept.

"This way, Harry," Marissa said, pulling him off towards the wall of the cave, "the Hogwarts' Express always leaves from Platform Nine."

They passed underneath a huge archway carved into the rock and entered Platform Nine. Parents and children were milling everywhere, saying goodbyes before those headed for Hogwarts boarded the bright red steam train.

"Well, Harry, this is it," said Marissa as they approached the train. "Remember to mind your manners. And choose your friends well - you may be stuck with them for a long time."

"I will," Harry replied. Marissa smiled at him.

"And do have fun as well," she said, "Hogwarts really is amazing, and you only go there once."  
And then she hugged him. Surprised, Harry returned the hug, feeling suddenly quite sad at leaving the Potters. He had got used to Thomas' formality, and Marissa's company. He even thought that, were Marissa to demand another etiquette lesson there and then, he wouldn't mind that much. A few seconds later she released him.

"Off you go then! And don't forget your trunk. I've made it featherlight so you can lift it."  
"All right," Harry said, "See you at Christmas!"

Lifting his huge trunk easily, Harry stepped onto the train. A long corridor met him, with sliding doors along the side, each leading to separate compartments. Harry walked down to the very end of the corridor and picked an empty compartment. He stowed his trunk and looked out of the window. Finding Marissa, he waved to her before sitting down, taking out a small book - _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Before long, the train started moving. Looking out of the window once more, Harry waved to Marissa as the train crept out of the Platform.

He was on his way.

* * *

Half an hour later, Harry put his book down in frustration. Interesting as it was, he just didn't feel in the mood for reading – the point of the Hogwarts' Express was to meet your classmates. Since no one had joined him in his compartment, he would just have to go look for people himself. Exiting his compartment, he was immediately hit with the noise of hundreds of unsupervised children. Apparently, most of the students chose to keep their compartment doors open and socialise in the corridor. Having your door shut probably meant you wanted privacy – no wonder he had been left alone!

Picking a direction at random, Harry started to walk, pushing past a multitude of students much taller than he. None of them spared him a second glance as he made his way down the corridor, glancing in to the compartments, looking for students his own age. The first years were mysteriously absent, but there was plenty to see nonetheless. In one compartment a boy was showing off his pet tarantula to many shrieks of fear; in another two students had got into a fight. One of them looked to be unconscious, the other was sporting a wide selection of pus-oozing boils. It looked like Thomas had known what he was talking about when he taught Harry the tickling jinx.

There was lots to hear too: as he walked, Harry heard brief snippets of conversations. Anna Beccles, it seemed, was a fifth year universally admired by the male population of Hogwarts, and there was much talk about a boy called Cedric Diggory, who was apparently considered by many to be a developing Lord. There was one piece of gossip, however, that every student seemed interested in.

"Have you heard?" they'd say. "There's a mudblood on the train!"

This year, Hogwarts was to see its first mudblood student. Assuming the Sorting Hat would sort them, that is.

Growing bored of the older students, Harry started skipping compartments, trying to get further down the train. Before long, however, his path was blocked by a large crowd. They were gathered around a door in an oddly respectful silence - especially when compared to the rest of the train.

"Are we agreed, then?" a male voice said from inside, "Flint, you will cede the position of Quidditch Captain to Wood. Wood, as Captain of the school team you must be neutral, so you will leave the Gryffindor team."

"Agreed," chimed in two more voices. The sound of wands tapping made it through the bodies. Some of the crowd clapped politely. Others groaned.

"There's no way we're going to win the cup now!" said one girl wearing the Gryffindor crest. Harry suspected this "Wood" was going to be facing some awkward questions from his housemates that night.

"Great," said the first voice, "Perkins, who's next?"

"Let's see... Stephanie Hodges wanted to speak to you about unwelcome advances from Higgs."

"_Really?_Fine. Stephanie, step inside for a moment."

The crowd parted to let a tall blonde enter the compartment. As they did, Harry got his first glance inside. A sandy-haired Hufflepuff boy, a few years older than Harry, was sitting on one side of the compartment alone, his wand resting on his lap, looking at the crowd. Opposite him sat a weedy boy clutching a roll of parchment and a quill. Leaving the compartment were two burly boys who were clearly from the upper years - they would be Flint and Wood. Just before the crowd closed up again, the sandy-haired boy met Harry's eyes.

"Wait!" he called, standing up in a hurry. The crowd froze. "It can't be..." he said, studying Harry.  
Harry began to feel awkward.

"It is! Come forward, Harry Potter! The Boy Who Lived himself!"

The crowd burst into whispers. All heads turned to look at him speculatively. More self-conscious than he had ever been in his life, Harry walked forward, hoping that his face wasn't as red as it felt. The crowd closed up behind him, effectively shutting him in.

The Hufflepuff boy sat back down, his body relaxed but his eyes intent.

"Harry Potter himself! No one told me you were coming to Hogwarts this year! To survive the killing curse... astounding." The boy seemed to pause, thinking. "But at such a cost, of course. Two generations of Potters, gone in one night. You have my condolences."

"Er..." said Harry, entirely unsure of what to say in such a circumstance. Marissa hadn't covered anything like this. Fortunately, the boy didn't seem to mind Harry's lack of verbosity.

"But where are my manners?" He stood up once more, and held out his wand. Harry's own dropped from his sleeve and they tapped. "Well-met, Harry. I am Cedric Diggory."

Harry didn't need to listen to the whispers of the crowd to know what had just happened. By calling Harry by his first name, but supplying his own name in full, Cedric had made a subtle expression of power. Harry _also_knew that the Potters were far above the Diggorys in social standing. He remembered Thomas' words, all those weeks ago - "the reputation of the Potters at Hogwarts rests with you". It was down to him to play these silly games, on behalf of Thomas and Marissa - and, indeed, Alfred.

"Well-met, _Cedric_," he said, careful not to place too much stress on the name - he didn't want to be too blunt. Especially as Cedric seemed to occupy a position of some power within Hogwarts. He didn't want to make an enemy of him - he just needed to communicate that he knew what Cedric had done, and did not approve.

It worked. Cedric's eyes briefly narrowed before he laughed cheerfully. Harry couldn't tell if it was real or not.

"Come, Harry, sit next to me," he said, indicating the seat next to the window. Not seeing any harm in it, Harry sat down - spawning another burst of muttering. Apparently his seating plans had significance too. "Now, Stephanie..."

Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation - some story about inappropriate arse-grabbing by a boy called Higgs - choosing instead to look out the window. The train's altitude was dropping. Looking into the distance, Harry could see where the ethereal track hit the ground and gained substance. Harry didn't know how long he zoned out for, just watching the scenery go by. He was pulled from his reverie when, finally, it looked like something interesting was happening.

"You there!" said Cedric, "Yes, girl, you! Come through, I want to see you."

Harry turned to see a girl around his age come through the crowd. She had bushy brown hair and her robes were all wrong. She was wearing a boy's cloak (you could tell by the slits for arms to fit through) and instead of the single, light robe girls wore in summer she was wearing an inner and outer robe, like the boys. Women only wore those in the winter. They were badly matched robes, at that - the inner robe was too short; the outer robe too long. You could see her shins - fine if she was wearing a summer robe, but she was dressed for winter! The collection of mistakes could only mean one thing: this was the -

"Mudblood," said Cedric. "That is who you are, isn't it? The mudblood everyone's talking about."

The girl squeaked, apparently unable to speak.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Hermione, Hermione Granger," she said shakily, holding out her hand. Harry winced, remembering his own _faux pas_with Madam Malkin. To try to shake hands was horribly rude - it implied you thought the person was as good as a Muggle. "And I prefer 'First Generation Witch'."

Cedric's lip curled.

"Do you know why wizards tap wands when they meet, Mudblood Granger?"

"N-no," she replied, dropping her hand. She seemed to have realised she had made a mistake. Other than her birth, that was.

"The Warlocks of old would tap wands before an honour duel. It was a sign of trust, you see? To get that close to your enemy, so close that you could touch wands, and yet not curse the other. To tap wands was to show that you would obey the rules of combat. To go into a duel without a wand, with just your bare _hands_- that is the ultimate insult. You are saying that your opponent is so beneath you that you can defeat them by duelling like a Muggle. Do you understand now?"

"Yes," said Hermione, looking down. Her face was red. Cedric sighed.

"All of that you would know if you truly belonged at Hogwarts. Honestly, I don't know what Lord Dumbledore was thinking. I know he's the champion of mudbloods, but this is too far. By Jupiter, how did you get in, girl?"

"I have as much right to be here as anyone else!" she snapped, "I passed the exam - I can do loads of spells!"

_An exam?_

That was the first Harry had heard of any exam. It must be just for mudbloods, he thought.

"I don't doubt that you're a witch," Cedric replied, "the first mudblood to pass the entrance exam must be talented indeed. But it takes more than magic to belong at Hogwarts, girl. Every person you see around you can tell you of their line, their family's achievements, status, allies and even enemies. Every person around you has a history intertwined with Hogwarts for centuries. You, girl? You don't even know how to get dressed in the morning."

If it were at all possible, it looked like Hermione blushed even more. Cedric was completely humiliating her, in front of at least twenty students - and more were crowding in every moment. Before the day was out, Harry knew that every student would have heard of how Cedric Diggory dressed down the mudblood.

"You amuse me, mudblood. Sit on the floor. I want to see what mistake you'll make next."  
"I'm not your pet!" Hermione shouted, tearful, and she made to run from the compartment. The crowd, however, wouldn't let her pass. Three times she tried to push past them; three times she was knocked back by the jeering mob. "Fine!" she said, more angry than embarrassed now. She sat down on the floor near the window, right by Harry's legs. Cedric watched her for a moment, then turned to Perkins.

"We done yet?"

"One more, Cedric," the boy with the parchment replied, "the Malfoy heir starts this year, and wants to -"

"Hold on," said Cedric, interrupting. Harry instantly saw why. Hermione had pulled a small Muggle notebook from her cloak, and a disposable ballpoint pen. "What're these?"

Hermione frowned.

"A pen and paper," she replied. "You know, the Muggle world has lots of things to show wizards. Honestly, I can't believe wizards still use quills and parchment!"

"Is that so?" said Cedric, a dangerous edge to his voice. He nodded to Perkins. The weedy boy quickly snatched the pen and paper out of Hermione's hands.

"Hey!" Hermione shouted, but no one paid her any attention. Perkins opened the window and threw the notebook out into the wind. Then he dropped the pen onto the floor and stamped on the flimsy plastic, smashing it underneath a finely crafted leather boot.

"You're a witch now," Cedric said, "act like it."

Hermione started to cry again. Feeling a pang of pity - even if she did need to be taught, it didn't have to be so harsh - Harry rummaged around in his robe, before finding what he was looking for.  
"Here," he said, passing a quill down to the crying Hermione. "It's self-inking, and charmed not to blott. It checks your spelling too."

Taking the quill, Hermione looked up at him, a small smile on her face. "Thank you," she mumbled.  
"What's the matter, Potter, feeling sorry for the mudblood?"

It was a new voice. A boy's, but it hadn't broken yet. It came from a boy who had shoved his way to the doorway. He had a haughty look about him, and slicked back sliver-blond hair.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot!" he continued, his tone sarcastic "Your father married a mudblood. You don't belong here either, half-blood."

A few in the crowd made "ooh" sounds, clearly anticipating a fight. Fortunately for Harry, Cedric intervened.

"That's enough. He's a Potter - he has as much right as any Malfoy. How was it that the Malfoys made their money, again? Theft and treason, wasn't it?"

The blond boy - evidently of the Malfoy family – scowled.

"When my father hears -"

"What's going on here?"

A tall boy came through the crowd, which parted for him without question. Unlike the other students, he had the look of physical perfection usually possessed only by adults. He had clear, pale skin and neat brown hair, and a badge on his robes carried the letters "HB". He was the Head Boy.

"Greengrass," said Cedric, "we were just discussing the best solution for the mudblood problem."

"They broke my pen!" exclaimed Hermione, standing up and brandishing a handful of broken plastic. "And were - well, they were very mean!"

Greengrass looked at the crushed pen, then glanced at Cedric. He raised an eyebrow. Cedric, looking slightly nervous, shrugged.

"I see no problem here," Greengrass said. The crowd laughed.

It seemed this was too much for Hermione. Tears streaming from her face, she fled the compartment, having to push her way through uncooperative students.

A brief silence reigned, before Greengrass spoke again.

"All right, today's entertainment is over. Back to your compartments - you're blocking the corridor."

Many groaned with disappointment, but all obeyed. Harry got up to leave too, wanting to leave the unpleasantness behind, but Cedric stopped him.

"Stay with us for a bit, Harry. I have to persuade you of the merits of Hufflepuff house!"

"You can try," Harry said, smiling, "but Potters are always in Gryffindor."

"True! But Potters are also known for breaking with tradition - maybe this year we'll see our first Hufflepuff Potter."

"Don't listen to a word he says, Potter," Greengrass said, "Slytherin is the place for you. Potters may have been Gryffindors for a long time, but before that they were Slytherins. It's time for the Potters to come home!"

"And live in a dungeon?" Harry replied. Thomas had told him all about Hogwarts, and the Potters' history there. "No thanks. I'd prefer a nice, tall tower."

Greengrass shook his head.

"We'll see what the hat thinks of you. In the meantime, have this."

He passed Harry a single sheet of parchment.

"It's your provisional timetable. Take a look at it sometime before we reach Hogwarts - you need to pick between French and German. Just poke the class you want with your wand."

"I already know I'll be picking French, but thanks," Harry said, folding up the parchment and placing it in his robes. "I'll look at it later."

"Very well. Now, I must leave you gentlemen - I have about fifty more of these still to deliver!"

The Head Boy departed for the now-clear corridor. Harry and Cedric sat in silence for a brief while, before Perkins started talking.

"So, Cedric, think you'll invent another spell this year?" he asked.

"Oh, sure, I have loads of ideas..."

Harry turned back to the window, half-listening to Cedric talk about spell-creation, but mostly thinking about Hermione and how mean everyone was to her. He was once again acutely aware that his own mother was a mudblood. Would she have been treated the same way? Harry was certain of it. That his father had married her seemed even more astounding. Harry was also very aware that he had been raised like a mudblood. Only his name and a month of intensive training stood between him and the kind of treatment Hermione received. Knowing that they were not so different, Harry resolved to try to be nice to Hermione.

Cedric was right - Potters _did _have a tendency to break with tradition.

* * *

Two long hours later, the train finally pulled in to Hogsmeade station. The sun had set, and the platform was dark, lit only by a few lanterns. Harry disembarked with Cedric, hoping to find Hermione, but Cedric was having none of it.

"Come on, Harry, you can get a carriage with us," he said.

Harry looked around the platform, trying to pick out a familiar face in the throng. No Hermione was to be found, nor could he see Titus.

"Sure," said Harry, seeing no better option. They exited the station though a narrow flight of steps, leading onto a winding cobbled road. Mismatched houses lined the streets: there were old Tudor timberframes, wonky with overhanging floors; squashed between them were tall Victorian terraces made of harsh grey stone. A multitude of horseless carriages sat along the curb, awaiting their cargo.

"This one will do," said Cedric, pulling open a door. It was bigger on the inside than outside, and the wooden benches had cushioning charms on them. As soon as they were seated, the carriage set off, trundling through the town at a lazy pace. Despite the cobbled street, the ride was smooth.

"So, Harry, looking forward to any classes in particular?" asked Cedric, finally tiring of Perkins' sycophancy.

Harry thought. He'd had a good look through his timetable, and didn't think there was a single class he didn't like the look of. Though the Muggle ones were definitely less exciting.

"I suppose geography is the most boring," he replied, thinking out loud, "I've always liked maths, but I can't wait for charms. Or anything you get to use a wand for, really. And physicks looks interesting - Ollivander talked a bit about it and I looked through the textbook and there's stuff that I'd like to ask the teacher - oh, and alchemy too, Titus says you get to do all sorts of cool experiments -"

"Hold on," said Cedric, smiling at Harry's enthusiasm, "Titus? Titus Black? You know each other?"

"Oh, yeah - uh, I mean, yes," Harry replied, glad Marissa wasn't there to catch him, "we met over the summer."

"Indeed? Surprising that the Potters chose to introduce you to a Black, of all people," Cedric drawled. Harry frowned. What was odd about that? Before he could ask, Cedric was already talking.

"And yes, physicks is good. It's my best subject, I'd say. If you ever have trouble with it, I'd be happy to help you out."

"Thanks," said Harry, "I was able to understand the stuff in the textbook pretty well, but..."

He trailed off as the carriage passed over the lip of a tall hill. Hogsmeade laid spread out before him, lit up by the moon and the twinkling of thousands of lights. A town of moderate size, it sat in the valley between two mountains. The far side of the town was squashed up against a tall, thick wall of stone.

It was what lay beyond the wall that took his breath away. The gentle slope of a grassy hill gave way to a mighty castle in pristine condition. It was not a single keep, but rather a mess of towers and walls and halls, all lit up with an unearthly glow by the moon. The castle sat on the edge of a tall cliff, at the bottom of which there sat a huge, dark, lake that stretched off into the distance.

It was an impressive sight, but it only lasted a moment. The hill was steep on the other side. With little warning, the carriage began hurtling down, the buildings around them turning into a blur. Even when they reached the bottom of the hill they did not slow. Though Harry guessed it was a couple of miles from the hill to Hogwarts' wall, the trip passed quickly. Before long they were approaching the gatehouse, a small keep in itself. The strong doors of oak were already open. As they passed through the entrance, Harry could feel a tingling feeling, like a million tiny brushes had scrubbed his skin.

He must have jumped, because Cedric's gaze snapped to him, his eyes narrowing. Perkins was oblivious.

"You feel it too, do you?" Cedric muttered, "keep this to yourself, Harry. People might jump to conclusions."

"Why? What conclusions?" Harry asked as they came out the other side of the gatehouse.

"There's a book, written by Marcus D'Urban – he's a historian. It's all about the Lords and Ladies, and at the end there's a list. Supposedly, the items on the list predict a person's likelihood of becoming a Lord. Feeling Hogwarts' wards? That's number four on the list."

"So people would think I was a Lord?" Harry asked. He didn't see why that was so bad – wasn't that exactly what Cedric had?

"Between that and surviving the Killing Curse – which isn't on the list, by the way – some would begin thinking it. I mean, no one knows how you survived that curse... I don't suppose you know? How you survived?"

"No," said Harry. He had no recollection of that day. He didn't even know what the Killing Curse was. Other than that it was a curse that killed, obviously

"Hmm."

Something about Cedric's reply made Harry think that he wasn't quite believed. He didn't push the issue, however, as they had arrived at Hogwarts. They had stopped at a side entrance to the castle.

"This is you," said Cedric, opening the door. "First years get sorted before the feast."

"Thanks," said Harry, climbing out of the carriage, "I'll see you around."

The carriage started moving again. Cedric just had time to shout "Don't forget, Potter – Hufflepuff!" before the door closed on him automatically. Smiling, Harry went to the large oak door and pushed.

It gave way easily, revealing a small foyer, plainly decorated. Some of the first years were there already – including, Harry noticed, the unpleasant Malfoy – but most were yet to arrive. He wondered if he should introduce himself to some of them – a rather nerve racking prospect – before the opening of the door saved him the bother. Hermione stepped through, alone. She saw him and stopped.

"Oh," she said. "Hello."

"Hi," replied Harry, dropping his wand into his hand. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Hermione Granger," she replied, clumsily tapping her wand against his.

"Nice to meet you, Hermione."

She smiled. Her front teeth were rather large. More people started coming through the door, so they moved aside.

"Thanks again for the quill," she said shyly.

"No problem," Harry replied, frantically trying to think of something to say. He didn't want to rub in the fact that she was a mudblood, so that meant he couldn't bring up her family. Nor could he talk about his own unless she asked – which she was unlikely to do. There was a brief and awkward silence, before Harry remembered something she said on the train.

"So you know some spells?" he asked.

"Yes!" said Hermione, a bit too enthusiastically, clearly glad that the awkward silence was over. "I mean, yes. I had to learn some, for the exam, you know."

"Yeah, the exam..." Harry wasn't sure if she knew that no one else had to take it. "So what spells do you know?"

"Well, let's see... there's the levitation charm, of course, and a colour changing charm, and a spell to make a match turn into a needle. And I had to know a potion to cure boils too."

Harry didn't know any of those spells. He didn't think they sounded very practical. But then, he thought, neither was the ability to light a candle by blowing on it.

"I suppose you know all sorts of spells," she said. It was clearly meant as a question.

"Well, a few. Just useful stuff, you know? Making the bed, opening and closing curtains, that sort of stuff."

"I still find it odd to think people use magic for such everyday things!" exclaimed Hermione. "Magic is such a gift! It really shouldn't be wasted on silly stuff like that..."

Harry thought that a funny idea indeed. Why wouldn't you use magic for everyday tasks?

"I don't think magic really works that way," he said, not sure how to voice his feelings on the matter – he didn't want to make Hermione think he was mocking her, like Cedric.

"Ahem," said an unnaturally loud voice. All eyes – and there were a lot of them, by now – turned to face the voice. It belonged to a woman, standing on the stairs leading out of the room. The woman had a very severe look about her, silky silver hair notwithstanding. There was something about her expression – her lip, slightly too curled; her chin, raised too high – that made Harry instantly dislike her.

"I am Professor Bagshot, Deputy Headmistress," she said once there was silence. "In a moment, you shall file into Godric's Hall, where you will be sorted before the banquet. When you enter the hall, you will exit onto a raised dais. Turn left, and sit on the benches arranged there. You will do so in silence. Lord Dumbledore will address the students before the sorting. Are there any questions?"

One boy raised his hand. He had ginger hair and dirt on his nose.

"Yes?"

"Do we have to fight a troll?" the boy asked.

Harry laughed with everyone else. Bagshot's lips thinned.

"Don't be absurd," she said. "Very well. If there are no questions, then follow me."

She walked up the stairs. The first years followed her in a disorderly fashion, sticking to the cliques that had already developed. No one wanted to get too close to the teacher.

Harry entered Godric's Hall in front of Hermione. He found himself standing at the front of the hall, on a tiered stage. He was at the bottom, just a foot or so above the level of the hall. On each of the other levels there was a long table for the teachers. Sitting at the centre of the table on the third level was Dumbledore. He sat on a simple wooden throne, looking every bit a storybook wizard. An _old_storybook wizard. His white hair and wrinkles were a stark contrast to the staff members seated around him.

Remembering the instructions, Harry turned to take a seat on the benches to his left. The rest of the hall was long, and filled with chattering students sitting at four long tables – one for each House. Hermione sat next to him. Soon enough, all the first years were seated.

Dumbledore stood. Without asking for it, without even raising a hand, all talking stopped.

"To all of our first years: welcome to Hogwarts. To our returning students: welcome back. I hope you will forgive an old man a few announcements before the sorting begins."

Despite his evident age, Dumbledore's voice was clear and strong. Harry was surprised at his words: he did not seem like a Lord at all.

"This year's Head Boy is Arcturus Greengrass and our Head Girl is Jessica Hale. You will be shocked to hear that the Restricted Section in the library is restricted and the Forbidden forest is forbidden. Do try to remember. Madam Pomfrey had to regrow more limbs last year than I can count. Hogsmeade is off limits except at weekends. The East Wing is restricted at all times, as is the Great Hall. Finally, I remind you that Hogwarts plays host to many visiting scholars and nobles throughout the year. Many have travelled far to be here. Try to stay out of their way, and, if you cannot, be courteous at all times. Now, Professor Bagshot, it is time for us to sort our first years."

He sat down, and Bagshot walked to the edge of the stage. She waved her wand and a stool appeared there, in view of all the students. She waved her wand again and a witch's hat appeared on the stool.

All eyes turned to the hat. It ruffled a few times, before it began to sing.

Come, children, sit and hear,  
for I tell a tale a millennium old.  
The story of Hogwarts, let me be clear,  
cannot be left untold.

Four Founders shared a dream,  
Lords and Ladies from far and wide.  
With mighty Merlin, ruler supreme,  
did their loyalties reside.

The vision was this:  
A magical school!  
For something was amiss  
in a nation of fools.

For years did they toil.  
A great castle rose up  
from naught but the soil,  
The first in all Europe.

Between the Founders, students were divided,  
apprenticed to one of the four,  
according to the talents each provided.  
Thus it was in days of yore:

To Ravenclaw, those most keen of mind,  
To Gryffindor, those for whom honour meant all,  
To Hufflepuff, those who never whined,  
To Slytherin, those determined to never fall.

Long has it been since  
the Four sat within this hall.  
Slytherin: of treason he was the prince,  
Merlin was his nightfall.

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff:  
now there is a tale of woe,  
Of sterner stuff  
was Grindelwald, their evil foe.

Lady Ravenclaw, filled with grief,  
Returns no more.  
Though it remains my true belief  
She will stand once more within Hogwarts' door.

And so it is I rest before you  
A hat, where once mighty wizards sat.  
To sort you without further ado,  
No time for any more chat.

So what will it be?  
Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin?  
Let the sorting begin!

The hall burst into applause, and the hat folded itself into several mock bows. Bagshot stepped forward with a roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, step forward and be sorted. Hannah, Abbot!"

A girl with blonde pig-tails walked over and put on the hat. Harry didn't like pigtails. After a moment, the hat shouted "Hufflepuff!" and Hannah took off the hat to the applause of the table on the far right. Returning it to the seat, she walked to her new Housemates and sat at the empty end of the table.

Bagshot called more names – many of which Harry recognised from his conversations with Marissa – before she reached the Gs.

"Granger, Hermione!"

That was a name that no one would recognise. The hall erupted into mutters. For her part, Hermione walked to be sorted with her head held high.

Before long -

"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted. Hermione joined her new house to only light applause.

It was quite a few names before the Ps came. Harry noticed that the sorting was quite uneven: many more students were going to Slytherin and Gryffindor than the other two houses. Eventually, it was his turn.

"Potter, Harry!"

He walked over and put the hat on. It fell over his eyes, blocking out his view of the hall.

"Hmm," a voice said. Harry could only assume it was normal. "Lots of talent. Curious, too. Willing to work. It's clear to me that you're a RAVENCLAW!"


	6. Chapter 5

**A.N. **A bit later than planned, but still, not as bad as it could have been!

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Lords of Magic**

**Book I**

**Chapter 5**

"Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!"

With those quite mystifying words, the feast began. As soon as Dumbledore had sat, food materialised on the tables, more food than Harry had ever seen in his life. It seemed like it continued on forever. There were roast meats of every kind imaginable - Harry had his eye on some perfectly pink roast beef - surrounded by a multitude of potato: mounds of glistening roast potatoes, great tubs of creamy mashed potato, even a large platter of chips. There was hot stew with steam rising off of it, fresh bread, and a variety of soups. Studiously ignoring a tureen of vegetables, Harry reached over to cut himself some beef.

"Cut me some of that, will you?" asked the girl opposite him. She was a short girl with sleek brown hair and a smattering of freckles. Harry thought her rather pretty.

"Sure," Harry replied, and he cut her several generous slices, juices oozing from the meat as he sawed into it.

"Thanks," she said, "I'm Alexandra, by the way. Alexandra Woodbridge."

"Harry Potter," he replied as he spooned a large number of roast potatoes onto his plate, before covering the whole thing with thick brown gravy. All around him the hall was alive with the sound of chatter. Harry was very aware that this was the time to be making new friends, but he didn't really know how to go about it. He supposed you just asked questions about each other.

"Pass the gravy, Potter!" called a boy a few seats down. He had messy brown hair and was easily the tallest boy in their year. Harry pushed the jug down the table and turned back to Alexandra. She was eating her food rather daintily, taking the smallest bites yet chewing them forever. Harry was reminded of the time Petunia tried to make him chew his food 100 times before swallowing. He was suddenly rather conscious that he had been shovelling his food in. It really was very good.

"So where are you from?" he asked her between mouthfuls.

"The middle of nowhere, really," she replied, looking unhappy about it. "And I mean it. I live in Suffolk. I swear there's nothing but Muggles for miles and miles. The Potters are from Camelot, aren't they? I wish I could live in Camelot."

From what Harry could glean from Marissa, the Potters _had_ lived in Camelot, before Thomas had argued with his father. The older Potters still lived there, close to Lord Peverell, but Thomas had left when he changed allegiance to Dumbledore. He didn't think Alexandra would be interested in that, though.

"Well, it's true that most of the Potters live in Camelot, but I live in Sanctum," he said, trying to keep it simple.

"Oh, yes, I forgot," she said. Harry wasn't quite sure what she meant, but supposed she knew his family history already. She definitely had the advantage on him there. The name 'Woodbridge' was familiar to him, but he couldn't remember anything else about them. "But Sanctum!" she continued, "that's even better! Suffolk is so _boring_. Of course, Sanctum is just a Floo away, but mother never lets me go on my own. I've only been there a few times, you know, to see the ballet. I don't suppose you dance?"

Harry, who was quite sure that dancing was for girls, shook his head. Alexandra sighed.

"No one seems to! Mother told me that Hogwarts has a dance club, but I'm sure it's quite small." She leaned in, as if she was telling a great secret. "I wanted to go to dance school, but Lady Asquith insisted on Hogwarts. She said I had to get a 'proper education'." She sniffed. "I don't see how alchemy is any better than ballet."

Harry decided that Alexandra was a bit silly. Who would pick ballet over alchemy? You got to blow stuff up! - or so he had heard. Still, she _was_ pretty. And she was in Ravenclaw, so she couldn't be a complete idiot, even if she was a girl.

"So if you don't dance, what _do_ you do?" Alexandra asked.

Harry thought. He didn't really think he did anything, not in the same way Alexandra did stuff. The magical world was still all so new, he hadn't had a chance to take up a hobby. He'd spent most of his summer playing around with magic, so he went with that.

"I like magic," he said, aware that he sounded stupid. Alexandra rolled her eyes, and Harry felt the need to boast. "I can light a candle by blowing on it."

She didn't look like she believed him, but they were interrupted before she could speak.

"Spoken like a true Ravenclaw!" said a familiar voice, and a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Harry looked up to see Arcturus Greengrass standing behind him. "All right, Harry? You managed to throw your wand at everyone, you know. Ravenclaw, of all places..."

Harry smiled, and noticed that Greengrass had managed to draw the attention of all the first years. Many were looking at Harry with something bordering awe - to have the favour of a seventh year, and the Head Boy at that, was apparently a feat worthy of respect. Arcturus turned his attention to the tall boy who had asked for gravy.

"You're a surprise too, Winters. I thought you were Gryffindor for sure. Our Lady will be pleased. Send my regards to your father, will you?"

Winters responded by holding up his goblet in a toast. Harry didn't think it very subtle, but it got the job done: every Ravenclaw was now aware that Winters had the Head Boy's favour.

"Now, time to reveal the true purpose of my visit," Greengrass lied, and he reached over for the platter holding the beef. "I hope you won't mind me taking this! So long, Firsties!"

Before anyone could raise an objection, Greengrass made a rapid escape with the beef. Across the room, a group of 7th year Slytherins cheered his successful raid. The boy to Alexandra's right scowled.

"I hadn't had any of that yet!" he said, "and it was from my father's farm, too."

"You can tell?" asked Harry, surprised.

"You mean you couldn't? I don't know whether to be insulted or amused."

Harry frowned. He was clearly missing something - it seemed like normal beef to him.

"Isn't beef just... beef?"

Alexandra tried to come to his rescue.

"It's Selwynn beef, Harry," she said, as if that explained everything. Harry was still in the dark.

"Oh, yeah, of course," he said, pretending to know what that was. The boy laughed, but seemed disappointed that Harry hadn't asked what it was. After the boy became distracted by a different conversation, Alexandra leaned over the table again.

"You don't know what Selwynn beef is, do you?" she said quietly. Harry considered denying it, but shook his head.

Alexandra _giggled_.

"Honestly, why didn't you just say? It's not important," she said.

Harry shrugged and watched as his plate disappeared to be replaced by a desert bowl. He helped himself to a large slice of treacle tart.

"Well then? Aren't you going to ask what it is?" Alexandra said, apparently unhappy that he was more interested in his treacle tart than he was her. Harry decided to indulge her.

"Fine. What's Selwynn beef?"

She smiled.

"How to explain... it's a type of beef that's always perfect."

"That's it? How can you tell it's not just really good beef, then?" Harry asked.

"Oh, I'm saying it all wrong," Alexandra moaned. "Okay, how about this: what did the beef look like to you?"

"It was pink?" Harry replied, not really sure where she was going.

"Exactly!" she said, "For you, it was pink. For me, it was red. I bet someone here likes it frazzled to a crisp. Selwynn beef is always perfect! Do you see?"

Harry nodded. Over the summer he had become quite used to strange things like doors that opened to different rooms at different times of day, or things being bigger on the inside than the outside. It had never occurred to him that food could be magical too. He wondered what other magical foods there were.

Soon enough, the feast began to wind down. The older students began to drift out, and some of the staff got up to leave. After Dumbledore left, two prefects made their way down the table to the first years.

"If everyone's finished, we'll take you up to the common room," said one of them, a girl with ginger hair.

The way to the Ravenclaw common room was long and winding, and all uphill. Whenever they came across one of the huge stairwells, filled with criss-crossing staircases, they would go upwards. Harry was quite lost, walking with Alexandra on one side of him, Winters on the other.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Harry asked them, "I think I lost track about two staircases back."

"You were keeping track?" Alexandra said, as if doing such a thing had never occurred to her.

Winters laughed.

"I reckon I could make it back with only a couple wrong turns," he said. It sounded like his voice had already broken. "We should go to breakfast together tomorrow, just in case. Less chance of getting lost if we stick together."

"That's a good idea," said a prefect who was walking behind them. He had blond hair and a serious face. Though he looked unremarkable there was something familiar about him. "I remember my first day here: I got so lost that I missed breakfast."

"How much further to the common room?" asked a chubby boy at the back of their small group. Harry noticed he was a bit red in the face.

"Just around the corner," replied the prefect, and when they turned the corner he told them to stop. They were standing in a long corridor, not so different to many they had already passed. It was wide and tall, lit by torches attached to the walls. Portraits lined the walls at intervals, and every here and there a suit of armour stood in an alcove. They were standing next to one such alcove. Two stone ravens were carved into the wall on either side of the armour, level with its waistline. The prefect they had been talking to spoke.

"Entry into the dorms is easy enough: you just have to tap one of the ravens on the head with your wand. You used to have to answer a question, but too many students got stranded outside. Penny, a demonstration?"

The ginger prefect who had gathered them earlier came forward. She drew her wand and gave a raven a sharp tap. The raven squawked loudly, and the suit of armour stepped backwards into the wall.

"Follow me through," she said, before stepping through the wall. There was a brief pause – no one seemed to want to go first – before Harry felt a push from behind. It was the prefect, who winked at him. Feeling everyone's eyes on him, he walked into the wall, hoping that he wouldn't hit stone and look like an idiot.

He need not have worried. He stepped through the rock as if it were air and emerged into a large yet warmly inviting room. Moving away from the entrance to let the others through, Harry took a good look around. To the left of the entrance a staircase rose upwards; the common room lay to his right. It was a long, thin room, almost like an expanded corridor. To his left, the wall was made almost entirely of glass: a giant window looking out onto Hogwarts' front lawn. He expected it would be a great view over Hogsmeade during the day. Opposite the window were numerous fireplaces set into the wall. All of them were roaring, giving the room its warm glow. Arranged around the fireplaces were circles of armchairs and settees, many of which were occupied by the upper years. Between the fireplaces the walls were lined with bookcases. There was another staircase at the far end of the room. From the inside, the entrance looked like a doorless archway leading out into the hallway. Harry could see Alexandra and Winters on the other side, waiting to come through.

"Come on," said Penny once they were all inside, and she led them to an unoccupied fireplace. "Have a sit down, everyone. There's a few things we have to get through." They just about managed to all fit around the fireplace. Harry counted: there were thirteen first years, including himself. The prefects stood in front of the fire.

"Welcome to Ravenclaw!" the boy said. "I'm Decimus Ollivander, and this is Penny Balfour. We're your 7th year prefects. Basically, that means you have to do what we say."

He laughed, and the first years laughed too, but Harry got the feeling that it wasn't entirely a joke.

"Tonight is designed to help you get to know each other better," Penny said. "We've got games to play and some supper later on – yes, you _are _going to get hungry again before bed – but first we should all introduce ourselves. We'll go around in a circle, giving our names and an interesting fact about ourselves."

Harry tried desperately to think of an interesting fact. Nothing he could think of was interesting – or suitable. He certainly wasn't going to tell them he was raised like a Muggle. He was so busy thinking that he missed the first couple of names. Very soon it was his turn.

"I'm Harry Potter, and I live in Sanctum," he said rather lamely. No one seemed to mind. Alexandra was already introducing herself enthusiastically.

"I'm Alexandra Woodbridge and I want to be a dancer," she said. Apparently she wanted to make this clear to everyone she met.

"Dorian Winters. Fencer, duellist, Quidditch enthusiast."

Harry was pretty sure he heard a few of the girls giggle at Dorian's dramatics. He tried not to feel jealous.

"Sebastian Selwynn," said the boy from the feast. "I saw the Sirens of Greece over the summer."

"Clare Penrose," said the next girl. She had pale skin and black hair, and one of her eyes was blue, the other green. "My element is water."

_That_ made everyone pause. Harry had never heard of people having elements before, and he was fairly sure it wasn't in any of their textbooks.

"You're one of LeFey's lot, then?" asked Penny.

The girl nodded, and there were various sounds of realisation from the other first years. He would have to ask someone about it later.

More introductions followed. There was Euphemia Gamp, who preferred to be called Effie, and Portia Savage, whose father was a tribune in the Saharan Legion. Then came Ethan MacDonald, the chubby one, and Stephanie Lawson, a strange girl who was met with horrified silence when she told them how she once saw a man eaten by a Quintaped.

By the time the introductions finished, Harry had already forgotten half their names.

"Excellent," said Ollivander, who was still sending Stephanie concerned looks. "You probably won't remember it all, but hopefully a few names stuck. You've got the rest of the evening to learn them – don't be afraid to ask for them again. Okay, a few things you should know before we play 'Mad Muggles': our Head of House is Professor Prewett, who is also Head of Alchemy. If you have any problems you should come to us first, but if they're really serious, or _about_ us-" his tone betrayed his disbelief that this would ever occur "-then you can go to him. I think some of you actually have him for Alchemy, which is unusual for first years. Which brings us to our next point. Penny?"

"You should have looked at your timetable by now," she continued, "and if you haven't picked between French and German yet, you should do so. You've probably also realised that you won't all be in the same classes with each other. It's possible that you may find yourself in some classes without any Ravenclaws at all, since there's so few of us. It's down to you to support each other out of classes. We don't want anyone falling behind or feeling excluded. We expect you to sit together during your supervised homework period, and work together when appropriate. Understand?"

They all nodded. Ollivander took over.

"Finally, as you know, Hogwarts runs on a 30 hour day. It's going to take some getting used to. For the first week or so you're going to experience Chronosickness. The first day is going to be the worst. We're going to spend this evening with you, keeping you awake beyond what you're used to. Right now it's 21:00. At home, you might be going to bed around now. We've got to keep you awake until around 27:00: after that you can go to bed. But don't worry, we've got lots of games to play, and food to eat if you get hungry, and Endurance Elixir for when you feel like you can't keep your eyes open any longer."

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of laughter and tiredness. They played 'Mad Muggles' – a kind of quiz revolving around all the things Muggles do to make up for not having magic. Everyone found it hilarious. Harry hadn't ever thought about it that way before, but he supposed that there _was_ something quite absurd about flying inside a metal tube with wings. Needless to say, he won by a large margin. Ollivander said he could probably pass O.W.L. Muggle Studies.

They played other games too, and not all of them sitting down. At one point, when everyone looked like they were about to drop, they were given the Endurance Elixir and led back into the castle for a game of Merlin and Rebels. _That_ game came to a rather abrupt end when it turned out that Sebastian Selwynn knew a locating divination.

Harry learned more about his classmates, too. Alexandra turned out to be gifted at more than just dance: she showed them how to make drawings that came to life when you had finished. Harry drew a picture of a snake and managed to get it to wiggle a bit.

Stephanie drew a rude picture of Professor Bagshot losing her clothes, which Penny confiscated.

Harry tried to teach them how to light candles by blowing on them, but no one could get the hang of it – not even the 7th years. Ollivander seemed quite put out by it, but Dorian said that it was awesome. Harry just about resisted the urge to show off.

It was a good thing he did, because Dorian then showed them how to duel and beat everyone handily - except for the prefects, who batted his spells away casually. Ollivander told them about duelling club, and Harry considered joining. Unlike the other houses, where it was optional, Ravenclaws were expected to join several clubs. They had three hours set aside every day for extra-curricular activities, and seven on Saturdays.

Finally, it was time for bed. Penny took the girls to their dorms, up the staircase by the common room entrance, and Ollivander took the boys to theirs. They were all in one room together; it was large and circular with seven grand four-poster beds, at the feet of which sat their trunks. Between the beds they each had a chest of drawers. After using their rather lavish bathroom across the hall, they settled into bed.

They fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

Harry woke early the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. He checked the clock: 06:00. Curfew wouldn't end for another half hour. Feeling too excited to go back to sleep, Harry rummaged around his discarded robes for his timetable, wanting to see what his day looked like.

It looked _long_. He had four lessons, each one two hours long: Physicks, History, Latin, and Charms. But that was just the _start_ of the day. After dinner he had 6 hours for homework and clubs.

Harry hoped they didn't get too much homework on their first day.

Deciding that no one would mind if he broke curfew by half an hour, Harry quickly showered and dressed (taking a brief moment to admire the Ravenclaw crest that had appeared on his school robes overnight) before heading down into the common room to wait for the others. The fires had long since burnt out; the room was lit entirely by the bright light of the morning sun, blasting through the massive window. It was almost _too_ bright, but Harry took a moment to bask in front of the glass, appreciating the view of Hogsmeade beneath them, sitting in its valley. He realised that the Ravenclaw dorms sat directly above the castle's main entrance.

Realising that the others could take a while to get up, Harry sat down and flicked through a magazine from the bookcase called _Alchemist's Almanac_. It was all about alchemical research and, while much of the theory was alien to him, Harry still found it interesting. Apparently, it had long been held that the numerological properties of the atomic number of gold explained its resistance to magic, but a famous alchemist (Lord Nicolas Flamel) had just published a new book all about why this was rubbish.

Harry was just finishing the article, more confused than enlightened, when Clare Penrose came and sat opposite him. They each muttered a "good morning" to the other before returning to a companionable silence - a silence broken by the distinctive laughter of Dorian Winters, who was coming down the boys' staircase.

"I'll be joining flying club for sure," he said to his companion, a redhead whose name Harry couldn't remember. "They don't let you try Quidditch until after at least a term of it, so I want to get - oh, there you are, Harry! We were worried you'd left for breakfast without us!"

"And get lost?" Harry replied, putting down his magazine. "No thanks." He checked his watch again - it was now almost seven, which meant breakfast had started. "I hope Alexandra gets here soon - I'm starving."

"I'm here, I'm here!" Alexandra cried. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and she was hopping towards them, managing to put a shoe on and walk at the same time. Harry stood up.

"Then let's go!"

Between Harry and Dorian, they managed to make it to Godric's Hall without a single wrong turn. As they walked, they compared timetables: Harry had Physicks with Dorian and the redhead boy (who turned out to be called Jaime Chambers) but Alexandra and Clare were in a different class. They all had History and Latin together, and then Harry was on his own for Charms. Breakfast itself was very informal: the tables were laid with a wide variety of hot and cold foods (though Harry noticed they had no cereal) and students seemed to be at ease wandering around the room, paying little attention to House boundries. Just as they were about to leave, Ollivander turned up with the remaining first years in tow.

"Hold on, you guys" he said, "you have to hang around for announcements."

They sat back down (Harry helping himself to another slice of toast) and waited as Ollivander handed out maps of where their classes were. Eventually, the hall was as full as it had been the previous night, and at eight o'clock the teachers filed in, their entrance quieting the hall to whispers. Dumbledore's chair sat empty, and Professor Bagshot led the assembly, calling on each teacher in turn to speak. Most declined - there wasn't much to say at the start of term - but a few teachers stood to advertise their various clubs. After the teachers were done, Bagshot invited announcements from the student population.

A boy stood, and Harry recognised him as one of the Quidditch players from Cedric's compartment. He must be Wood, Harry thought, spying his Gryffindor crest.

"We may be just starting back, but Quidditch season is already upon us!" he said loudly. His announcement was greeted with a cheer. "We have six Quidditch fixtures this term, and we're hoping to improve on our position of 2nd in the league this year," - another cheer - "for fixtures and training times, see your House noticeboards, or the Quidditch noticeboard in the Entrance Hall. I'd like to draw your attention to one in particular, our annual Samhain match against our rivals Scrivenwell's - I expect the whole school to turn up to watch us smash them!"

That was met with the biggest cheer of all.

"_Thank you_, Mr. Wood," said Professor Bagshot, her tone disapproving, and he sat back down.

There were no announcements after that, and the staff left, followed quickly by many of the students. There was more than enough time for Harry and the others to walk back to their dorm to pick up their books before they had Physicks, arriving at the classroom with ten minutes to spare. Harry waved to Hermione when she arrived on her own, carrying a ridiculous number of books. She was also wearing the correct robes. Apparently someone - student or teacher, Harry couldn't decide - had given her a summer robe to wear.

They were ushered into the room by their teacher, a tall, mild-mannered man with olive coloured skin, curly black hair, and an unfortunate moustache. The room was nothing unusual: rows of tall benches with stools behind them, a blackboard at the front and displays on the wall.

"Welcome to Physicks," he said after the class had sat down and got out their books. Harry was sitting in between Dorian and Jaime somewhere in the middle of the room. Hermione, he noticed, was right at the front, next to the teacher's desk. "I am Mr. Smethwyk." His name wrote itself on the board.

"Now," he continued, perching on the edge of his desk, "can anyone tell me - or like to take a guess at - what Physicks is?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air; the class snickered. Mr. Smethwyk looked surprised - his question had probably been intended rhetorically.

"Ah, yes, Miss...?"

"Granger, sir," she said earnestly. Smethwyk blinked. "Physicks is the study of the most basic nature of the universe, including laws of magic, energy, and force."

The class glared at the back of Hermione's head. Even Harry felt some annoyance - she didn't half make it difficult to like her. She sounded like a walking textbook. In fact, Harry was fairly sure that was straight from the introduction of _their_ textbook.

"Thank you, Miss. Granger. A most... familiar definition." Mr. Smethwyk said. He motioned to the board, and several words appeared there, replacing his name. He read them out one by one. "Magic. Energy. Force." He paused, before more words appeared. "Motion. Magnetism. Thought. Will. Space. Time. Matter, and soul. Cause, and effect.

"These - and more - are the concepts that Physicks deals with, as Miss. Granger rightly notes. But!" he jumped from the desk, startling everyone. "_What. Is. Physicks_?"

His question was met with silence. Not even Hermione fancied her chances at a second attempt.

"No one?" he asked. "Physicks is _experiment_! Physicks is _reason_! Physicks is _mathematics!_ Physicks is _understanding - _understanding the world around us, in particular, the many and complex ways the world and magic relate. Do you understand? Through looking at the world - experiment - we reason, using mathematics, towards understanding."

His passionate speech was backed by the sound of scribbling quills. Hermione looked like she was writing everything the man said. Harry just wrote four words: experiment, reason, mathematics, understanding. They seemed pretty important.

"It is easiest, I think, to give you an example," Mr. Smethwyk continued after he had let them catch up. "Consider Hogwarts. Through the spells cast here we experience a 30 hour day. This is our observation. Now, who can tell me what normally dictates the length of the day?"

Harry knew that one from primary school. He raised his hand, and, to his surprise, was called upon.

"The Earth going around, sir."

"Correct! Yes, a normal day - more or less 24 hours - is the result of the rotation of the Earth upon its own axis. As it rotates, sunlight falls on different parts of the globe. Now, we have two facts, two observations: that Hogwarts has a day of 30 hours, and that the rotation of the Earth should give us a day of 24. It is now time to use _reason_. Let us think of an explanation. Who here thinks that the spells on Hogwarts cause the Earth to slow down, lengthening the day?"

The class laughed. Mr. Smethwyk smiled, pleased.

"Good, good. If anyone had raised their hand then, I should have pointed them straight to the door." Harry wasn't quite sure if he was joking. "Let us skip a few steps - I shall tell you the answer. What happens is this: the spells do not move the celestial objects, nor do they _create_ time - they squash it. Time passes quicker within Hogwarts grounds: for every hour that passes in the outside world, 1.25 hours passes here. This allows us to fit more time into one day. Really, we have not changed the length of time passing at all - we have rather translated that _real time_ into a _virtual time_ that occurs within it, according to the following equation:"

He wrote something on the board by hand. Harry didn't recognise half the symbols there.

"That is one of the three Russell Equations of Temporal Mechanics, which describe how time can be traversed, stretched, or folded."

He paused, and looked at the class. Harry didn't know about the others, but Smethwyk had lost him at the equation. He felt he had done well to understand that far.

"Confused?" asked Mr. Smethwyk. The class responded with many nods. "Good! You won't understand all of _that_ until your seventh year! But hopefully, you now grasp something of the nature of Physicks. For today, we shall focus on something much more mundane. Write a heading: speed equals distance divided by time."

Thus began the class proper. Most of the lesson was spent rolling marbles down slopes of different inclines, timing them with stopwatches, and then calculating the average speed. Mr. Smethwyk then got them drawing graphs and showed them how the slope of the line was the speed. Finally, he showed them how to rearrange an equation (something they should have learned in mathematics, he moaned) and gave them a sheet of problems for homework.

By the end of the two hour lesson, Harry was pretty drained. He checked his timetable. He had a twenty minute break before he had to be at History - just enough time to rush back to the Ravenclaw dorms to switch his books. Forgetting about Hermione entirely, he walked off with Dorian and Jaime, talking about the possibility of a day that lasted a whole year.

* * *

Harry was exhausted by the time Charms came around. History had been rather dull, and involved very little history. Miss. Vance had spent most of the lesson handing out notebooks and outlining the year ahead. They'd be spending all of the first term on the Roman occupation of Britain. After that they would learn about the rise of Merlin and then, after the spring holiday, about the emergence of immortality. Everyone was eager to learn about Merlin's Conquest, but Harry was not alone in dreading "The Economic Impacts of the First Population Explosion". After lunch, Latin hadn't been much better: they had spent the entire lesson learning the difference between nominative and accusative cases.

All things considered, Harry was looking forward to his first lesson involving practical magic. After his summer of successful spell casting, he felt more than ready for wandwork. As far as Harry knew, he was the only Ravenclaw in his Charms class, so he made his way there on his own, agreeing to meet up with the others for dinner.

When he arrived, however, he realised that he wasn't completely alone. Unfortunately, he was to share Charms with the Malfoy boy, who was surrounded by a gang of Slytherins. Harry hung back from them, not wanting a confrontation on his first day of school. It wasn't long before Professor Flitwick turned up. He was a very short man – he probably wasn't fully human, Harry thought – and had a squeaky voice. He ushered them into the classroom and immediately decided to re-arrange them.

"No, this won't do, not at all," he said. "Everyone stand up and sit girl-boy alternating."

The class grumbled, but did as he said. It was a tactic Harry was familiar with from primary school, so he quickly grabbed a desk in the middle of the room between two blonde girls – a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff. Meanwhile, Malfoy and his gang were squabbling over who would have to sit at the front.

Soon enough the class was settled, Malfoy sitting smugly at the rear of the class, and Flitwick began to teach. Despite his small stature, he had no trouble gaining the attention of the class: he simply raised his wand and they hushed. It was, Harry supposed, an advantage of teaching at Hogwarts - all the children had been trained to obey. Fear of the silencing charm didn't hurt either. Having got their attention, Flitwick pointed his wand at his feet, and clearly announced:

"_Volonte!_"

At first, the spell had no visible effect, but then Flitwick floated upwards so that his eyes would have been level with a normal man's. The class grinned, and so did Flitwick. Harry noticed that his teeth were quite pointy.

"For every ten spells cast by the average adult wizard, nine are Charms," he said decisively. In a surreal parody of Miss. Vance, he began to pace in mid-air, as if his feet were upon solid ground. "They are the most useful, most flexible, and - if I do say so myself - most fun magic you'll learn here at Hogwarts. Now, for 5 points, who can tell me the difference between a Charm and a Transfiguration?"

Harry was pretty sure he knew that one, but - unlike Hermione - he didn't have an answer ready at a moment's notice. As he was thinking about the best way to word it, the Slytherin girl to his left raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss. London?"

"Transfiguration changes things physically, Charms change things magically." There was no hesitation to her voice.

"5 points for Slytherin! Yes, that's more or less it... though you do have to be careful! After all, something like the Unbreakable Charm changes a thing's physical properties - that is, the way it interacts with other physical things. But you're essentially right. Though an Unbreakable Charm changes a physical property, it doesn't change physical constitution - how the thing is physically made up. Rather, it overlays a magical effect, underneath which the object remains the same. A demonstration will help you appreciate the difference, I think."

He jabbed his wand, and said "_Aguamenti!_". A jet of water burst from his wand and hit the blackboard, drenching it and anything nearby. A few girls in the front row shrieked in surprise, which caused Flitwick to grin his toothy grin once more.

"That," he said, with some satisfaction, "is the water conjuring Charm. A _Charm_, mind you. How do you imagine this water differs from natural water?"

There was silence as the class thought about it. If a charm wasn't physical, Harry thought, did that mean the water wasn't physical?

"No one?" Flitwick said, "I'll tell you then. The water I just conjured isn't real water at all - it's a magical construct. Certainly it has physical effects - it will feel wet, it may even quench your thirst if the charm is cast well enough, but there's nothing real there. Just properties without substance. The exact "how" of that is advanced Physicks, so you'll have to take my word for it! Now, another demonstration."

He have his wand a sharp flick. "_Conjuris Aquis_!" he said, the tone of his voice resonating with command. Harry felt a kind of vibration echo out from Flitwick, though it wasn't like the vibration of loud music, or a hockey stick after you hit the ball hard. It was something almost imagined, a prickling behind the ears, but Harry knew it was real, even if his classmates showed no sign of feeling it. The spell created a large globe of water hanging in the air. Flitwick kept it there, hovering and undulating, so that they could get a good look at it. Then, with a cackle, he released it, and the water fell to the floor with an almighty _splash_. Even in the middle of the room Harry felt a few drops of water hit him. The girls at the front shrieked again.

"That, on the other hand, was a true conjuration, which belongs to the branch of Transfiguration. No points for it, but who can tell me how _this_water is different from natural water?"

Harry raised his hand.

"Mr. Potter!" Flitwick cried, as if he had just noticed him. Harry took it as permission to speak.

"It's the same," he said, fairly sure of himself.

"Correct!" Flitwick cried, and he flicked his wand again. The room instantly dried out. "The water from a true Transfiguration is indistinguishable from natural water. You could drink it for all your life and never want for a drink. You could leave it in a glass for a thousand years and it would never disappear - except through evaporation, of course."

Flitwick stepped out of the air onto the chair behind his desk, which had much longer legs than a normal chair, so that he came up to normal height.

"So, we have established that Transfiguration is not completely useless. Good. But we are here for Charms, which are much better, I think you will agree! So let's see if we can do some magic!"

"Doing some magic" apparently meant getting out their books and taking notes from the board. They learnt about the three key elements of Charms: the incantation, the wand, and the motion. The incantation was the most important, Professor Flitwick said: every Charm had an incantation, but some could be performed without a wand, and for many the motion could be dispensed with once a person was familiar enough with the spell. After that, they were ready to start casting spells.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!" Harry said, swishing his wand awkwardly, just as Professor Flitwick had showed them. He was unsurprised when the spell failed to do so much as make the feather in front of him twitch. The spell just felt wrong. It was like trying to walk in a shoe that didn't fit properly. The words sounded silly and the wand movement was extravagant. He felt like someone _pretending _to be a wizard. The spell would be so much better if it used an upwards flick, Harry thought...

"_**Stop!**_" Flitwick cried, shocking Harry into freezing mid-incantation. He rushed over to Harry and forced Harry's wand down, then waved his own wand in a complex motion. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

"I will say this only once," Flitwick said, addressing the class as a whole. "Never - _never _- deliberately change a spell. Believe me, more than one student has died trying it. Bad things happen to wizards who stumble into spell creation without proper preparation. You have been warned. Should I catch any of you attempting it, you shall be suspended for a year. Is that understood?"

The class nodded, but Flitwick had eyes for Harry alone. He gave Harry a piercing look, before nodding and walking away. "Now, remember, it's _WinGARdium LeviOsa_..."

Harry looked back at his feather, properly chastised. He had no idea that fiddling with magic was so dangerous. His mind went back to Thomas' warning at the beginning of the summer, and to all the magic he had played around with. How close had he come to death, without even realising it? And that spell he used against the werewolf - that was surely fiddling at its most extreme. Harry had been planning on asking a teacher about it, but he was suddenly wary. He didn't want to be suspended for a year, after all. What would Thomas and Marissa say?

Harry was subdued for the rest of the lesson. He answered no questions, and stuck rigidly to the correct form, bad shoes or no.

His feather did not move.

* * *

Harry's bad mood persisted all the way through dinner. He ate methodically, offering only a few words to the Ravenclaws' conversation. His mood did not go unnoticed. Dorian tried to cheer him up by snorting a line of pepper. Harry laughed when Dorian almost screamed from his stinging nose, but was otherwise unmoved. Selwynn told Harry in a faux-mystical voice that he foresaw Harry being cheerful once dessert came, but Harry wasn't hungry. Alexandra looked at him thoughtfully, but didn't snort pepper or make jokes. She waited until dinner was over and they were walking to the Study Halls before pulling him aside.

"You're acting like a little girl, you know," she said quietly as they walked through a rose garden. Though it was approaching 20:00, it was nowhere near dark.

"What?" he replied, surprised. Of all the things Harry thought she might say, that was not one of them.

"You're being all sulky," she said as casually as if she was discussing the weather. Harry didn't know what to say. Dorian and Selwynn playing around were easy enough to ignore, but someone straight-out accusing you of sulking was hard to avoid. Especially as avoiding it would just make you look more childish.

"Of course, we all like to have a sulk now and then," she continued, "I just can't figure out what's got you so upset."

"I, er..."Harry looked away. He suddenly felt rather foolish. "I couldn't get my feather to move in Charms."

Alexandra laughed.

"Oh, Harry, is that it? Mine barely moved either, you know, and Stephanie's actually caught fire! Don't worry about it - it's our first day! You're still the only one who can light a candle by blowing on it."

That was true enough, Harry thought. And magic was _meant _to be hard. If it was easy, they wouldn't have to go to school for it. Maybe the spell felt awkward for everyone. Harry felt his mood lifting. He tried not to think about Hermione, who had cast the levitation charm to get into Hogwarts. Hadn't he learnt a load of Charms over the summer?

He smiled at Alexandra, and she smiled back.

"Thanks," he said.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "My mother gives me that little routine _all_ the time. Now come on, or we're going to be late!"

They made it to the Halls just in time for their supervised homework session. The Halls was a short but large circular building set against the North wall, separated from the main castle by a courtyard, a passageway, a garden and five greenhouses. It was in this building that all supervised homework sessions took place - three hours sitting in a hall with a teacher watching over you to make sure you did work. The building contained three such halls: one for NEWT students, one for OWL students, and one for the junior years. The latter hall was their destination - they were among the last to arrive, and they quickly found a double desk.

While loud talking was not encouraged, students _were_ permitted to interact during these times, and the hall was filled with the buzz of hushed talking as work began. Harry and Alexandra talked about Physicks and how their lessons differed. Alexandra was stuck with a grumpy old man called Professor Seltzer, who displayed none of the passion typical of Mr. Smethwyk. Their homework, however, was the same, and they worked through it together, sharing answers and arguing about them when they differed.

Soon enough they were onto their Latin. Alexandra had left to go to toilet and Harry was stuck on the second problem when someone sat in Alexandra's seat.

"It's ablative - 'taberna', that is. The sailors are _in_ the tavern, you see?"

It was Titus Black.

"But we haven't done anything about ablative yet," said Harry, addressing the problem at hand.

"Hmm. You have Mrs. Perkins, right?"

Harry nodded.

"That's about right then. She loves setting trick questions that you won't get until the next lesson."

"Oh," said Harry, annoyed that he had spent 10 minutes trying to figure out which noun was accusative when there wasn't one. He wrote down "ablative" with some satisfaction. Perhaps he would get extra marks for it.

"So what brings you over here?" Harry asked, not impolitely.

"Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that," Titus replied with a smirk, "but really, I just saw you from across the hall and thought I'd check up on you. Blacks and Potters have got to stick together, right?"

Harry suddenly recalled the conversation he had overheard. Thomas had said something about keeping him away from Sirius Black - Titus' father. And now that he thought about it, Cedric had been surprised when he incorrectly assumed that the Potters had introduced him to Titus. And yet now Titus was acting as if their families were old friends.

"I'm not sure if Thomas and Marissa would agree with that," he replied carefully. He didn't want Titus to think he was snubbing him. Harry was pretty sure that snubbing a Black on your first day at Hogwarts was social suicide. Or perhaps regular suicide.

To his surprise, Titus laughed - and was promptly shushed by a dozen students.

"I dare say they don't," he said, back to a whisper. "For generations the Potters and Blacks have been enemies. But our fathers, they ended that. As close as brothers, they were - ask anyone. But the Potters, they didn't like that, did they? Potters and Blacks were meant to be enemies. But James was the rebellious sort, as I'm sure you know. Didn't listen to his parents, nor his grandparents. And then - you probably haven't been told this - my father introduced your father to your mother. When they got married, the Potters were furious. Threatened to disown him. And James may have been rebellious, but he wasn't _that _rebellious. Family is family, after all. After the wedding, your father and mine never saw each other again."

Harry was speechless. At first, he couldn't believe that Thomas and Marissa had threatened to disown his father over his mother. And yet he _could _believe it of the overly-stern Thomas, and even of Marissa, who clearly still disapproved of his mother. And now, clearly, they were trying to make sure he didn't walk in his father's footsteps.

Harry would never be ashamed to follow after his father.

"I don't know about you," Harry said, "but I'm feeling a bit rebellious."

He held out his wand, just as Alexandra returned. Titus looked at him searchingly, then nodded, and tapped Harry's wand with his own - in front of every first, second, and third year.

"Well, Harry, I suppose I should let you get back to your Latin. As you Potters say, _In Fide Venaratio_!"

He nodded to Alexandra and left. Half the hall seemed to watch him go. Mrs. McGonagall even seemed to be watching.

Alexandra took back her seat and stared at him.

"What just happened?"


End file.
